


The Most Dangerous Game

by Chi-chi-chimaera (gestalt1), gestalt1



Series: The Most Dangerous Game [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dark, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 10:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/Chi-chi-chimaera, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gestalt1/pseuds/gestalt1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/">BBC Sherlock Kink Meme </a>: I'd really like to see some secret!serial-killer!Sherlock, either because he's finally gotten bored of solving regular crimes, or he's been doing this all along and framing other people for it.<br/>Extra Dark!Watson would be much appreciated. Maybe he's just seen so many people killed, and killed himself, that it no longer feels like much to be concerned about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Dangerous Game

\----

He buys the overalls second hand, pays cash. The ID is easy enough to fake, a more working class accent even more so. He’s always been good at acting; it was one of the few things he enjoyed at school. He likes it because it’s useful, slipping into another’s skin, shedding it when it is no longer necessary. Wearing masks, acting the normal, plebeian, _boring_. It’s all in the details.

He maps the man’s patterns of behaviour, and the girlfriend’s. She is normally home, alone, reading a book at eight, the time he knocks on the man’s door and tells him there’s been a gas leak. He lets him in. Goes back to watching TV, something dreadfully pedestrian. He goes to the kitchen, slips on powder free latex gloves, rolls up his sleeves, and takes a knife from a drawer. He slips his shoes off and pads back through to the living room. He doesn’t make a sound; he is practised and careful enough to ensure that. He makes it quick, a sharp slash across the carotid, sending arterial spray across the couch, moves one step to the left, and thrusts the knife with seventy per cent of full force into his chest. The angle is awkward, purposefully amateurish. The effect will be of someone shorter and physically weaker than him. Observation suggests it will match the girlfriend tolerably well.

Helpfully she has left a cardigan in the bedroom. He soaks the sleeve in some of the blood, and then puts it in the washing machine. Rinses the knife in the sink and puts it back. Uses tape to take fingerprints from her hair straighteners – she spends nights over – and puts them on the handle. Takes off the gloves, puts them in a plastic bag in his pocket. Washes the blood from his bare forearm. Then he leaves. All the evidence will point to the girlfriend, who should arrive at nine, in time to find the body and call the police. This is certainly not a case which Lestrade will bring to him. There’s no fun in chasing yourself.

\-----

Watson. John Watson. His new flatmate. There’s potential there, Sherlock thinks. He’s an Army doctor, used to the sight of blood and violence, accustomed to having his hands in someone else’s flesh. PTSD, going by the psychosomatic limp and the nightmares. Surely he won’t have any qualms about murder, not if he’s pushed to it, or perhaps, convinced into it. Not if it’s fun, and dangerous, and Sherlock has already seen how much he’s drawn to that, how he’ll come running at the mere mention of the word. _He_ isn’t normal, isn’t boring. Smarter than most of the idiots he is constantly plagued with, though he doesn’t always show it. There are the beginnings of something useful here. Perhaps even a partnership.

Sherlock fumbles for the packet of nicotine patches, slapping another one onto his arm with a certain satisfaction. There is this new case, the serial suicides, to occupy his mind, but he can’t keep focus on it, keeps being distracted by John, this curious man. It is so unlike him, to feel anything stronger than a kind of uninterested distain for another human being. The mere fact that he does shows how singular John is. He wants to show him how engaging it can be to explore the other side of the law, the sleazy underbelly of the city, the fun that can be had in the perfect, untraceable crime. It is the best, the only, counterpoint to solving cases like this one, and what other slight diversions Lestrade can find for him. If they were all as entertaining as this, he wouldn’t need to resort to crime, which after all holds more dangers, especially if Mycroft were ever to get involved. If there is one person who might be capable of bringing him within the mediocre reach of those imbeciles who call themselves the police, it is his brother. It’s just... he does get so very _bored_.

But back to the problem of John, and how to make him realise that laws are for ordinary people. Mundane people. Not like the two of them. It will be slow, and he can’t expect results at once. Patience is not his forte, but he thinks just this once he might be able to manage it. If it wasn’t in pursuit of such bloody ends, he thinks Mycroft might actually be pleased.

\----

Standing behind the police line, watching Sherlock sitting in the back of the ambulance with a bright orange shock blanket draped over his shoulders, John can’t believe quite how alive he feels. In that moment, everything had narrowed down to the gun and the target, the mind calm and focused, his hands steady. Exhaling, firing... then the world snapping back into motion as he ducked out of sight behind the wall. He should probably feel guilty about killing a man, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before, and there’s no arguing that he deserved it. And he had probably saved Sherlock from a needlessly risky gamble.

He smiles at Sherlock when the man finally wriggles out of Lestrade’s clutches and comes over, feeling lighter and happier than he has ever been since coming back to Britain. He feels like he did something worthwhile tonight, protecting this man, no matter that they’ve only just met, and don’t exactly know each other yet. It’s a feeling of triumph he hasn’t felt since Afghanistan.

“You’re an unusually good shot for an army doctor,” Sherlock remarks once they’re out of earshot of the police, and of Mycroft.

“I practised,” John says, knowing he sounds a little defensive. “I take pride in my abilities. I enjoy it.” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. “Being able to hit a target,” he adds hastily. “Not the... killing people thing.”

“I never said anything about killing.”

 _Goddamnit_ , John thinks. He doesn’t know why he bothers. Sherlock can read him like a book.

\----

Sherlock has been trying to drop clues as to his moonlighting activities in the weeks since their first case together, but he’s not sure John has noticed anything. Perhaps he’s being too subtle? After all, though he finds he is starting to have some degree of fondness for the man, he shouldn’t let the unexpected sensation take away from his logical assessment of John’s abilities. He is still an idiot, if not quite as bad as most, he must remember that. But it’s quite simple. He has been careful to tell John that he’s going out each time, and when they make the papers, to circle each article in red pen. But John just seems to think he’s fishing for new cases to keep himself occupied, which is accurate in a way while still being completely and utterly _wrong_. Maybe he should start bringing home trophies, though it goes against every instinct he possesses. Surely the risk would be worth it? But no. He will just have to be more obvious.

\----

After they escort Sarah home, rather shaken, but feeling a lot better, she says, now that she is safe and everything’s over, they wait for a cab to come by, loitering on the pavement. Sherlock lends him his scarf against the cold night air.

“That’s the second time you’ve killed someone while we’ve been on a case,” Sherlock says. “Is this going to become a regular occurrence?” He sounds excited at the prospect.

“What?” John says, startled. He hadn’t been thinking about it like that at the time, it was just a matter of saving Sarah’s life, but now the adrenaline is out of his system and he’s started to come down from the high, he has to wonder just how much he was actually aiming the thing with his kick. He can’t feel unhappy with the outcome.

“You don’t hesitate. Something the army trained out of you.” There is an almost manic glint in Sherlock’s eyes. It’s quite nerve-wracking to have all that intelligence focused so intently on him. “Tell me John, do you still feel guilty about it?”

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the genius.” His heart rate picks up. What is he so afraid of? That Sherlock will see right through him, that he’ll know about that quiet feeling of satisfaction at a job well done, that sick thrill of almost pleasure that he has tried to deny he feels. The war changed him, and he doesn’t like the result.

“True, but I’d like to hear it from your own mouth. Emotions are not as easy for me to read as cold hard facts.” He smiles. “Sociopath, remember?”

“I don't feel anything,” John lies. It’s as close to the truth as he’s willing to get, and Sherlock will never believe him if he says yes, he does feel guilty. Yet somehow, he doesn’t think he has fooled him at all. He just doesn’t understand why Sherlock keeps pressing the point. Does he want him to _admit_ to it? His motives are like his deductions; inscrutable.

\-----

Midnight. Sherlock has disappeared into the night leaving him to make his way back to Baker Street alone, something John is starting to become used to. No doubt he’ll appear in the morning, not having slept or eaten, with the answers to their latest case. It isn’t far from the crime scene back to the flat, which is lucky, as he doesn’t have the cash for a taxi, if he could find one at this hour. He doesn’t mind the walk. The cold air helps him think.

It isn’t what you would call a nice area of London he has to walk back through, but he has his gun. He’s perfectly calm about it until he overhears the sound of a struggle in the shadows of the nearest alley. There’s no instant in which he makes a conscious decision, it’s just instinct to run over and investigate, maybe help if need be. What he sees makes him freeze.

Two figures are locked together, a man and a woman, in what a casual observer might have thought was sex. John though has had the benefit of Sherlock’s company for too long already to be fooled. The woman is struggling against the man, not writhing with him. The dim yellow streetlight catches the glint of a blade. John reaches for his gun, drawing it smoothly from the small of his back and training it on the man. He steps forward.

“Get your hands off her,” he says loudly.

The man stops. His knife is already buried in the woman’s ribcage. She has gone mostly limp, scrabbling at his arm weakly. In John’s professional opinion, she doesn’t have long to live. He moves closer, trying to get a look at the man’s face.

The killer turns towards him, drawing the knife out smoothly, letting blood spurt fitfully from the gaping wound he leaves behind, and John’s breath catches in his throat. He knows him. Richard Dyer.

Dyer spots the gun and backs off, holding his hands in the air, still clutching the bloody knife. John keeps his face hidden in the shadows. He doesn’t want to be recognised, and he probably would be. He and Sherlock have talked to Dyer before during this case, the last time only this morning before Sherlock had his customary moment of brilliance and worked out that he was the killer in the latest set of murders. The police were looking for him at this very moment. It seems he has struck again.

“Drop the weapon,” John says coldly. “Stay where you are while I call the police or I _will_ shoot.”

“Big talk from a short man.” He grins, unfazed. “It probably ain’t even loaded.”

“I assure you it is.” It would be so easy to kill him. The woman is unconscious from blood loss, little that can be done to save her now. There are no witnesses.

Dyer begins to bend down to set the blade onto the alley cobbles, but John sees how he shifts his balance in preparation to move before his hand lashes out, sending the knife flying towards him. John dodges. The metal clatters against the wall, and Dyer makes a run for it.

Breath in. Aim. Breath out. Fire. It’s easy. Uncomplicated. The bullet takes Dyer in the upper back, between right shoulder-blade and spine. A good shot in the darkness, but not fatal. The man crumples though, letting out a gasp of air that’s clearly audible. Probably hit a lung. Dyer is writhing and gasping on the ground like a landed fish, whimpering in pain. See how you like it for a change, John thinks. He walks over slowly, in no rush, and puts a bullet in Dyer’s brain. It feels. So. Damn. Good.

It takes a while for it to sink in. This wasn’t self defence. He can’t argue he was protecting a life as he might have done with the cabbie. He didn’t have to kill Dyer, he had disabled him, he could have called the police to come and arrest him. This was vigilante justice, what he just did. Murder for the thrill of it, just to get the adrenaline pumping through his veins again, to bring him back to the new him, the hidden self that was forged in Afghanistan and that he’s been trying to push away.

Deep breaths John. It’s not so bad, he thinks, trying to convince himself to stay calm. They might have his ballistics on file from the cabbie, but they never linked that back to him, and he thinks only Sherlock (or Mycroft if he was at all interested) would put two and two together and come up with John Watson. He tucks the gun back at the small of his back and heads onwards to Baker Street.

\----

There is a sound of running water. Sherlock blinks, and the room comes back into focus. He has been overindulging on nicotine patches lately. He is quite aware of the necessary dosage required for any of the more unfortunate side effects, having used the poison a number of times when boredom dictated, but while it is excellent for his powers of deduction, it can narrow his focus a little too much. Obviously it’s John, returned from his overly long walk back from the crime scene. He expects the water to stop, but it doesn’t. What is John doing in there that requires so much washing?

He rises to go and find out; he has insufficient data to make a deduction from the sofa. He makes his way to the bathroom quietly, wanting to catch John unawares, before he can try to hide anything. Not that it would fool Sherlock at all, but it will save the hassle. The door is ajar, the light shining out into the dark hallway. John’s breathing is audible over the sounds of water splashing; hand washing, Sherlock’s mind supplies. Louder than it should be, and faster. High emotions, not physical activity. Sherlock moves closer and begins to push the door open. It swings 50° before John notices.

The reaction is quite telling. John starts violently, whirling to face him. The soap in his hands slips out as his grip tightens reflexively and disappears somewhere in the vicinity of the toilet. His eyes are wide in panic. Sherlock takes all this in in moments, analysing his appearance and all those little clues that speak so loudly to him.

“You should have gotten rid of the gunshot residue by now,” he says.

John gapes at him. “What?”

“There is a fine spray of blood on your trousers, indicating a shot at close range to a man lying down. Obviously a man, you are too chivalrous to kill a woman, even a criminal one. No doubt a head shot considering your training. A rapist or murderer, to arouse such strong anger in you.” Sherlock smiles. “Am I right?”

He already knows he’s right. It seems, oddly, even more satisfying than usual. John killed a man tonight. That makes three since they met, and this one was what most people would quantify as cold-blooded murder, judging by John’s atypical reaction. This is good. He can work with this. John is progressing nicely. The only unexpected thing is the strength of his own reaction. Satisfaction certainly, but also an odd warmth that seems to curl in his abdomen, a strange heat he is sure he has never felt before. He has no experience with the emotion – generally he tries not to feel more emotion than he can help. This... he will have to think about this.

“You... I...” John seems at a loss for words. Sherlock frowns a little. Surely he can’t fear Sherlock would turn him in to the police. They may have only known each other for six weeks, but that should be long enough for even the most moronic member of humanity to realise that he only takes cases because of boredom, not out of any particular respect for the law.

“Well clearly I’m right John, there’s no need to stutter so. It’s obvious to anyone with the least amount of wit. Luckily, Lestrade and his band of imbeciles to not possess anything of the sort, so you have nothing to worry about.”

There is a long silence.

“It was Dyer,” John says finally. “He killed a woman in an alley, I overheard it...”

Sherlock nods encouragingly. “And you shot him twice, of course. Quite understandable. Come on through into the kitchen, I know a very effective method of removing bloodstains from clothing.”

“I... okay.” John follows him out of the bathroom. It is obvious even to Sherlock that he is not thinking clearly at this point. Possibly he is in shock. Maybe Sherlock ought to get him an orange blanket, since that seems to be the standard treatment in these situations.

“I thought you would react differently,” John says once he has been relieved of his trousers. Since they don’t own an orange blanket, Sherlock puts an ordinary white one around his shoulders. John looks confused. “Why do I have a blanket?” he asks.

“It’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock.”

“That is what _I_ always say, but if no one listens to me, a certified genius, I’m certainly not going to listen to you.”

“ _Certifiable_ more like,” John mutters, but he smiles, so Sherlock knows he must have done something right.

“I would ask how you’re feeling, but I think it’s quite plain. You are feeling guilty about the fact that you don’t feel guilty. In fact you enjoyed the experience, as you have done on all three successive occasions.”

John’s smile disappears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be disingenuous John, it doesn’t suit you.”

“If you knew all along, why did you bother asking in the first place!”

Sherlock sighs internally at the intellectual hopelessness of the majority of the human race. “I was attempting to persuade you to admit it. I only wanted to encourage you to come to terms with the changes that you have undergone during your time in Afghanistan. It is obvious that your laughably inept therapist was not about to do so.”

“What, you mean the fact that I’m no better now than any of the killers you spend your time helping Lestrade put away!” John is angry now, his eyebrows furrowed, his face flushed, his pulse and breathing rate quickened. It is a more helpful emotion than false guilt at any rate.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “I remind you John, I am a sociopath. With respect to the rules of behaviour laughably called morals, nor am I.”

John deflates rapidly, seeming to shrink into his blanket. “Sherlock, you don’t mean that,” he says quietly. “You _help_ the police, you solve crimes! Your actions say differently. Otherwise you would be doing just what Donovan keeps saying you will, and start killing people yourself every time you got bored.”

It is an almost herculean struggle to stop himself from pointing out to John that he does just that. The man can be so wilfully blind sometimes. Well. He isn’t ready for the truth yet. Sherlock won’t tell him until he has come to terms with his _own_ amorality.

“Go to bed John,” he says instead, pushing him gently in the direction of his room. “You can continue your tiresome moral crisis in the morning.”

John lets out a humourless laugh, but he goes. Sherlock watches him all the way up the stairs, thinking. This will be a good partnership. John enjoys killing, and he doesn’t actually have any qualms about it. He just wishes he did. To Sherlock, the actual act of bloodshed is not what ‘gets him off’ as Sergeant Donovan would crudely put it, but the puzzle itself, the game. However in practical terms, this is merely an academic distinction. People die either way. Perhaps, for John, he can restrict himself to people who ‘deserve’ it.

He begins to deduce what these strange new feelings are. Surprising as it may be, he finds himself sexually attracted to John Watson. He has to admit this is an interesting development. It merely remains to see if John will reciprocate it.

\----

 _Warehouse. You know the one. Come at once. SH_

John re-reads the text, puzzled. What warehouse? He isn’t aware of any particular warehouses that have some kind of significance... ah. The one where he met Mycroft, though he can’t imagine why Sherlock couldn’t just have come out and said that like a normal person. Ha. Normal. As if that has any bearing on his world any more.

His military training stands him in good stead in working out how to get back to the place. He hadn’t exactly been concentrating very hard on it the first time round, what with being sort-of kidnapped. He makes a couple of wrong turns and has to backtrack several times. He’s on foot. It’s slower, but he doesn’t know the address, so a cab wouldn’t do him much good. He finds the right street eventually.

It’s late. There is no-one around. A car he doesn’t recognise is parked at the dead end of the alleyway. The door to the warehouse is open just enough for him to slip through.

Sherlock is waiting for him inside, vibrating with the kind of eagerness he only has when they’re on one of those cases which he feels are actually some kind of challenge. John can’t imagine why he feels that way _now_. There isn’t anything special happening at the moment, unless Lestrade has come up with something new since the last time he saw his flatmate.

“Come on John, hurry up,” Sherlock says. “We have a guest, and I would hate to keep him waiting.”

There is something John doesn’t quite like here. Who is this ‘guest’, and why do they need to meet him in such an out of the way place as this? But he follows Sherlock anyway, deeper into the maze of crates wrapped in the industrial equivalent of cling film.

“Observe!” Sherlock cries triumphantly as they round a corner, sweeping his hand in an expansive gesture. John takes in the scene in front of him. There is a man tied to a chair by hands and feet. He’s gagged, but not blindfolded.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” he asks cautiously. He’s sure there must be a perfectly rational explanation for this, even if it’s only rational by Sherlock’s standards. Whoever the man is, he doesn’t recognise him.

“What can you deduce about this man?” Sherlock asks, quite casually, as if there is nothing at all strange about some stranger tied up in a warehouse in front of them.

“He’s either drugged or concussed,” John says, trying to get his brain into Sherlock mode. “His eyes aren’t focussed on us, and he’s swaying slightly.”

“Obviously. What else?”

“Uh... he’s a criminal? I mean, I don’t think you’d leave an innocent man like this.”

Sherlock sighs. “Banal but correct. Working class, left handed, spends beyond his means, treats women badly, lives in a council house, sells drugs but doesn’t use them himself, almost painfully stereotypical, probably something he plays up.”

There’s no point in asking how Sherlock could possibly know all that, John thinks, rolling his eyes a bit. “So what, exactly is the point of this Sherlock? To prove how little I’ve been learning from you?”

“That isn’t the _primary_ reason John. The primary reason is also the reason that all those details are relevant. This morning Lestrade called me regarding the case of a woman who had been raped and severely beaten. This man is the prime suspect, but unaccountably there was insufficient evidence as to his guilt. I was called in on the hope that I could find more.”

“ _That’s_ where you’ve been all day?” John asks, surprised. “Why didn’t you want me to come with you? I wasn’t working today.” He’s on probation at the moment actually, working part time. He keeps being distracted by Sherlock, which leads to late nights, which leads to falling asleep in his office, which leads to Sarah not being very happy with him. At least she knows now _why_ it keeps happening. They’re still friends, even if their... thing, whatever it was, is over. It wasn’t really working out anyway.

“It was dull. Your presence wouldn’t have been particularly helpful.”

John shakes his head. They’re getting side tracked. “So why, exactly, is this man here then? Shouldn’t he be in the custody of, you know, the police?”

“I didn’t find any further evidence.” Sherlock is moving, walking round... no, more like _stalking_ round to where John is. He stops behind John’s shoulder. Closer than is entirely comfortable, though he’s not exactly eager to examine the reasons why right at this present moment. If it had been anyone else John would have reminded him that there exists this little thing called personal space, but it’s Sherlock. Boundaries tend not to apply.

“I have no doubts whatsoever that this man raped and nearly killed his girlfriend. Circumstantial evidence abounds. But she is in no state to give testimony, and there is no conclusive DNA evidence. This man will walk free if nothing is done.”

John may not have Sherlock’s brain, but even he can see where this is going. “I may have killed Dyer...” he starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“John,” he says softly. There is an odd lilt to the words. Almost crooning. “John we both know what you truly are inside. This man has done terrible things. Inhumane things. To kill him would be like putting down a rabid dog. I wouldn’t tell anyone. No-one would have to know. It would be a good thing. The right thing. He will do this again if he is not stopped, I promise you that.” His voice is quiet. Compelling. Hypnotic. John can feel his heart speed up. His eyelids flicker half shut. God, there’s a part of him that wants to do it. A large part. The urge is... fuck, it’s almost _sexual_.

“He’s... the police. They’ll notice if he goes missing. This might be out of the way, but he’ll be found.” He’s trying to justify not doing this to himself. Because if he doesn’t have a good excuse, he will. He _will_ kill this man. He _does_ deserve it. What Sherlock said is all true.

“He owes money to some less than savoury people,” Sherlock says. “Blame will be placed on them. Why would you be suspected? You have no obvious motive. You didn’t even know who he was until this moment.”

“But they have the forensics of my Browning. Twice is suspicious enough, but _three_ men associated with your cases?”

Sherlock smiles. He’s so close now John can feel it against his ear. Sherlock’s breath is warm against his hair. “I thought of that,” he whispers. “I brought a different gun. Black market. I have my connections.”

He reaches round and presses it into John’s hand. He can tell by the weight that it’s loaded. The noise he lets out is uncomfortably close to a whimper. “It’s wrong,” he says, but it sounds so weak even to his own ears.

“According to whom? I’m sure you killed men in Afghanistan who deserved it less.”

That is.... so very true. The semi-automatic is a comforting weight in his hand. Sherlock’s fingers are still resting on his wrist. They are practically pressed together, Sherlock’s body hot against his back. John wants this, all of this, adrenaline surging though him, sharpening everything, heightening his perceptions. Everything feels so much _more_. He raises the gun. Sherlock’s arm rises with his. John’s hand is as steady as iron, as stone. His skin feels electric, as though static is rippling through it, all the tiny infinitesimal muscles that control his hairs contracting. He breaths out. Pulls the trigger.

The man’s head explodes in a shower of blood and bone fragments. He lolls in his chair, neck extended. The back of his skull is basically gone. John feels a bright stab of pleasure that makes him realise he is half hard. Sherlock is grinning into his neck.

“John,” he says slowly. “John you are magnificent.”

“Yeah?” John says. He is expecting his voice to shake but it doesn’t. He waits to feel some sort of negative emotion, the slightest stab of guilt or doubt but there’s nothing. Just this satisfaction, this pleasure. God, he’s a sick bastard. Donovan was suspicious of the wrong person. “I would have thought I’m not enough of a puzzle for you.”

“John, you will always fascinate me. I am a sociopath, yet you are the one person I care about in any way. Do you think I would do this for anyone else? Call anyone else a friend?”

There’s a dead body not five feet in front of them, this is a deeply bizarre conversation to be having right now. But Sherlock hasn’t moved from his position pressed up against him, and John realises with a start that he is not the only one turned on by this.

The hitch in his breath evidently tells Sherlock everything he needs to know. “And of course,” the detective adds, “you’re the first person I have ever been sexually attracted to.”

John makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Sherlock takes it as an invitation. His hand leaves John’s wrist and drops to the button of his jeans. He works it open one handed, slides his fingers in to brush against John’s cock. He’s fully hard now, and it feels... God, it feels so good. He lets his head drop back against Sherlock’s shoulder, baring his neck. It feels like a submissive gesture, and Sherlock takes it as such, fastening his teeth into his flesh. The bite stings in all the right ways.

Sherlock strokes him leisurely, and John can’t help but buck up into the touch. _Fuck_. He’d never even imagined this scenario before now, what Sherlock’s hand would feel like, eager yet still unsure, unpractised. Has he ever even done this to another person before? It’s such a heady thought, that this might be Sherlock’s first experience of sex, even if it’s a hand job in a chilly warehouse with a dead man staring at them and the scent of fresh blood in the air.  
That fact really should have been more disturbing. It isn’t though. Sherlock is making little noises in his ear, whimpering, rubbing his hard cock against the small of his back, frotting against him. It’s desperate, jerky, and John can’t decide between moving back against it, or pushing into Sherlock’s hand. He would try and reach round and help Sherlock get off but the angle’s all wrong. The best he can do is just hold on to his hip.

He still has the gun in his right hand. He drops it, letting it clatter loudly on the floor, and reaches up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s curls. His hair is so soft, and he can’t help tugging on it lightly. From Sherlock’s moan, he likes it a lot.

John is close, so close, and Sherlock is too be the increasing speed and lack of co-ordination in the way he writhes against him. Next time, next time they’re going to do this in a bed, and he’s going to hold Sherlock down and fuck him, or maybe the other way around, he’s not fussy, and maybe he’ll run the muzzle of his gun down the long lines of Sherlock’s spine, and...

“I love watching you kill,” Sherlock whispers in his ear, and he comes, so hard he thinks his vision in going to white out. “Maybe next time you should watch me do it.” He barely hears the words in the orgasmic haze, and the surprise he ought to be feeling barely registers.

\-----

Blood. Red. Scene tinged with it. Sky. Earth. Mountains.

Gunfire. Sharp. Knife sharp. Smell. Hot. Hot. Hot.

Breath in.

Screams. Turn. Look. Man on ground. Faceless. Moaning. Innards, outwards. Shrapnel. Bleeding. Dying.

Scalpel in hand. Sun glints off metal. So sharp. Digging into flesh. Save him? Kill him? Blood, hot over hands. Lick it off.

Lick.

Lick.

Taste copper, iron. Heavy, hot, good. Arteries, for a fast death. Veins, for slow. Slice it slowly. Oh so slowly.

So hot. Hot like hell. Dead smell. Rot smell. Corpses. Bloated.

Sun. Heat.

Blood.

John wakes up with a gasp.

\-----

The early morning sun is shining through the window onto the bed. John breaths deeply, trying to get the memory of the dream out of his head. He has dreamed of Afghanistan before, but never like that. Never. It felt so real, so perverse, so pleasurable. What exactly has he unlocked within him? What kind of monster?

The warm body next to him shifts, and buries its nose into his neck. John turns his head, and sees Sherlock, asleep for the first time he’s seen since he has known him. He looks peaceful. Happy. You would never guess that last night he had jerked him off after John had killed a man, and then they had come back to the flat and fallen into bed and kissed lazily until they fell asleep. It’s... surreal. He almost can’t quite believe it happened.

He reaches under the pillow. The gun from last night is still there. It must be real. God, now what? What does he even think he’s doing? This isn’t right, none of this is right. Maybe he should just go and turn himself in to the police right now.

“Could you have your crisis of conscience a little quieter perhaps,” Sherlock mumbles into his skin. “This is really quite pleasurable.”

John jumps. “I didn’t realise you were awake,” he says cautiously. He hadn’t imagined Sherlock would be this... cuddly, awake.

“You were thinking too loudly. By the way, you have work in an hour, and no doubt Lestrade will want to talk to me at some point today.”

“Work.” He hadn’t realised. But of course, he might be a murderous vigilante killer by night, but he still has a real job, like a normal, sane, non psychopathic person. God, what is he going to do? He can’t just go and sit in the GP surgery and make small talk with Sarah and think about how good it felt to blast that bastard’s head open, and how Sherlock tasted when they kissed, and the little gasp he let out when he came. His concentration will be all shot to hell.

“Yes work. And stop being so melodramatic.” Sherlock raises his head from John’s shoulder and props himself up on his elbow. “This is no time for the equivalent of a gay freak out.” He’s smiling. That might have been his idea of a joke. John rolls his eyes.

“It’s all very well for you to say, I bet you’ve never done a days work in an actual normal job in your life.”

Sherlock makes a face of clear disgust. “And why would I want to? My brain would rot before the morning was out. God no.”

John laughs. This is all surprisingly domestic. It’s not something he ever expected from a man like Sherlock Holmes, he has to admit. He flips the covers back and rolls out of bed, stretching. If this is going to continue, and by God he hopes it does, they might need to buy a bigger bed. The sun is not yet warm on his bare skin, but the lack of clouds in the sky promises a hot day later on.

“There isn’t any milk, by the way,” Sherlock says, reaching a long arm down to the pile of abandoned clothes on the floor and fishing out his phone. He starts texting. Under normal circumstances, John would be more than a bit annoyed at that revelation, seeing as it was Sherlock’s turn to buy more, but he is in a good mood, and he doesn’t want to break it.

“I’ll have toast,” he replies, starting to get dressed.

“The Lurpak on the top shelf has a colony of E. Coli in it. Don’t throw it out please, it’s important.”

John rolls his eyes, but heads towards the kitchen. Eating anything in here has required developing some finely honed senses for potentially lethal food. He leaves Sherlock in his bed. Apparently having avoided sleep for as long as humanly possible, he is taking advantage of the opportunity to laze about.

It’s only later, riding the tube to work, that John remembers the words Sherlock whispered into his ear last night. He feels a chill of unease. It’s going to bug him all day, he’s sure of it.

\----

John ends up working late, as patients run over their timeslots and a backlog runs up. He can blame his own distraction at least a bit for this. He can only spare half a brain for their diagnostic problems, so caught up is he in wondering what Sherlock had meant, although since spending so much time with the man, even half of his brain is better at spotting little useful clues than it used to be.

So what _had_ Sherlock been referring to? That seeing John in action had made him want to experiment for himself with what it felt like to kill a man? Or something a bit darker? Maybe Sherlock _has_ murdered before. Maybe Donovan was right. He banishes the thoughts from his mind. He can’t afford to think of them right now. It isn’t the time. That will come later.

When he finally makes it through the door at six, Sherlock is waiting for him, his armchair swivelled to face the door, his fingers steepled in a thoughtful, considering sort of way.  
“You want to know the meaning of what I told you last night,” he says, eyes flicking to John as he walks in.

“Yes.” John says cautiously, moving to hang up his coat and dump his bag of paperwork next to the sofa. This should be... interesting.

“I hadn’t meant, at the time, to mention it. I was hoping to save it for a more opportune occasion, but, I confess, the unexpected intensity of our sexual encounter made me incautious.”

John tries very hard not to blush at the bald, matter of fact way Sherlock describes it. Instead he just nods for him to continue.

“I almost told you once before, when you insisted that my actions proclaimed that I wasn’t essentially like you in my moral standpoint.”

John is aware that Sherlock is being more than usually clinical about this, almost as if he is trying to dissociate from it. He can only assume that Sherlock is, what, _afraid_ of John’s own reaction? “So what you’re telling me,” he says slowly, “is that you _do_ kill people... _have_ been killing people.”

“Correct,” Sherlock says, very quietly. He won’t quite meet John’s eyes. “Donovan is a more perceptive woman than most give her credit for. Or perhaps, more paranoid. Certainly she has reason to be; her last boyfriend was abusive, certainly a sociopath, though less intelligent than I am and therefore less able to work out the social cues required to stay out of prison; no doubt she sees the same basic characteristics when she looks at me, it must be said I usually can’t be bothered to play nice for the normals unless strictly necessary...”

“Sherlock!” John interrupts him. “Sherlock, calm down. I’m not... I’m in no position to judge you right now, okay!” That might be essentially true, but it doesn’t stop John’s heart from beating faster, from nausea rising at the thought that Sherlock has been going out _murdering_ people just because he was _bored_. But isn’t that just what John himself did last night? Killed for the pleasure of it? Because it made him feel good? And _he_ hasn’t even got the excuse of being a sociopath; he is still capable of empathy for his friends, his family, has none of the other diagnostic characteristics...

Sherlock blinks at him. “Just because you don’t think you are in a moral position to do so, doesn’t mean you aren’t judging. Please. This is why I wanted to wait until you were a little more at ease with yourself, before getting on to me.”

John sits down on the couch heavily, running his hands through his hair. “I just... I don’t know. I suppose I took comfort from the fact that you were better than me.”

Sherlock laughs. “John, I encouraged you to kill a man in cold blood last night, and you still clung on to some fancy about my moral superiority?”

John has to smile a bit at that. “Yes,” he says. “Well.”

“I was going to drop a few more hints, and then surprise you with an invitation to view my work. It would have been... nice.”

It surprises a chuckle out of John. “What, like a date you mean?” he says, then stops. Thinks back over the last few sentences. “Wait? _More_ hints? There were hints before?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , John. The newspapers? I though they were quite clear.”

“Newspapers... you mean those red circles? Those articles, those were all _you_?”

Sherlock smiles. “At last you get the picture!” He seems relieved. “I still have them, if you wanted to peruse them. Of course, if you have any questions, I would be happy to explain my methods...”

John gapes at him a little. “Sherlock, are you... showing off?”

“It does grow a _little_ disheartening when I am the only one who knows anything is suspicious. Of course, the planning it takes to make it seem like a dull, ordinary crime is the draw to my intellect in the first place, but it would be nice to have a _challenge_ once in a while.”

“How... how often do you do this?” John asks, not entirely sure he’s quite ready to hear the answer.

“Only when I have to. Boredom, as you know, is intolerable to me, but I much prefer the cases Lestrade brings me.”

“Does Mycroft know?”

Sherlock makes a face. “One must assume that he does; with Mycroft, anything otherwise would be very stupid. But he has never said anything to me about it. I should like that state of affairs to continue.”

“Okay. Okay.” John feels very tired, all of a sudden. He had suspected all of this, yes, he knew that, but he had been hoping – forlornly hoping, as it turned out – that Sherlock would prove him wrong. He ought to have known better. “So... what now?”

“We kill people John. That’s something you need to come to terms with. You’ll be much happier when you do.” He looks so calm about it all. So very different to John’s own inner turmoil.

“So you’re taking over as my therapist now are you?”

Sherlock smiles at him. “I suppose I am, yes.”

Well that’s that then. As John goes to find a take-out menu under the clutter on the kitchen table, he realises, with a chill, that he is already looking forward to their next little... _outing_. He wants to see just what Sherlock is capable of.

Hypocrite, he tells himself firmly. It doesn’t help.

\----

When the summons from Lestrade arrives, it is not entirely unexpected. Sherlock hadn’t thought it would be this soon though. Moriarty. A name like a whisper on the lips of the underworld, sinister, feared. Someone they have encountered twice over the past four months; someone who has his fingers in very many pies. Despite knowing only a little about him, Sherlock knew a confrontation of some sort was inevitable. His only wish is that it had been longer. Whatever this new case will involve, it will take up all his time for the foreseeable future, and that means he will not get a chance to show off – he admits that’s what he’s doing – to John. And he was so looking forward to it.

At Scotland Yard, Lestrade hands him an envelope with his name on it. Creamy, heavy duty paper, but nothing that can’t be bought in any craft shop in London. Fountain pen, blue ink, female hand, but shaking, unsteady. Possibly under duress, or otherwise very nervous. Not Moriarty himself. John looks over his shoulder as he slits it open and lets the contents drop out into the palm of his hand.

A mobile phone. Pink cover; the same model as that in the case John had written up online under the title A Study in Pink. Not the same phone, but it’s a sign, if he had been in any doubt, that this is about Moriarty. That this is the opening move of a chess match between masters. He smiles, thin-lipped, almost private. A test of wills and wits. He is going to enjoy this.

“Is that...?” John starts to ask. Sherlock interrupts him swiftly. As usual, he is forced into explaining the most simple of things to the dullards around him – not that he really think John is as stupid as all that, but on occasion he acts it. Clearly this is not the same phone, clearly it comes from Moriarty, clearly the sender wishes to communicate through it.

At that moment the phone begins to buzz. Sherlock feels excitement rise. It begins.  
There are a series of texts in the inbox. John and Lestrade crowd round him as he begins to open them, starting at the bottom. First, five dried seeds, the pips of an orange. He clarifies their meaning out loud for his two companions while flicking quickly through the rest. He has a suspicion there is little time to spare.

The next appears to be the living room of an apartment; the London skyline is visible from between the curtains. A man sits on the sofa; dead. Early thirties, fastidious over his appearance, office worker. Throat slit, stabbed in the chest. The TV is still on. There is something oddly familiar about the scene, the way the murder has been enacted. Even down to the spray of blood on walls and floor. He files it away for later analysis.

The third and last, taken in the same flat, is a woman, early twenties, secretary, cat owner. She is blindfolded and gagged, tied to a chair in front of the kitchen table. In front of her is an odd mechanical contraption. A handgun is held pointed at her forehead – Browning L9A1, the same model as John’s – the trigger on a wire attached to a timer. A countdown. Nine hours. He has been given nine hours to save this woman’s life.

“I don’t get it,” Lestrade says, frustration filling his voice. “She could be anywhere in London! How does he think we’re going to find her?”

“My dear Inspector, that is why you have me,” Sherlock says, and then it all clicks into place. Obvious. So very obvious. The reason it looks familiar is because he’s seen it before. An identical murder, mere months ago. _His_ murder. Somehow, Moriarty knows.

“You’d better come up with something fast,” Lestrade says. “But I trust you. If you need us for anything, give me a call. I assume you’ll be wanting to handle this on your own.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. John is regarding him with some confusion. He has clearly caught on that something is wrong here. Well done John. Deductive skills coming along nicely, if not terribly helpful at the present moment. “I have an idea. I’ll call you in an hour; we may have something by then.”

He is going to need all his skill in this endeavour, he sees that now. Perhaps he has underestimated Moriarty. What tipped him off? His crimes were perfect, always. Sherlock doesn’t make mistakes. But there must have been something...

Lestrade nods to him, and ushers them out of his office. John is evidently growing more curious by the moment. Sherlock makes an effort to relax his posture. The key, he is sure, is constructing a false trail to the correct answer. At least he is unlikely to be challenged on any of his deductions; who would question Sherlock Holmes?

He will have to tell John, of course. But not here. Not where they might be overheard. When they get to the library, he can reveal just what they’re dealing with.

\----

“A copycat?” John says. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Sherlock nods tensely.

“The dead man precisely mirrors the last homicide I committed before you moved in with me. The woman, therefore, clearly represents the girlfriend whom I arranged to be the main suspect.” He gazes out of the window at the stormy skies. John can’t help but think they’re appropriate for the situation, and the mood. “The gun is the same as yours. He’s clearly referring to you, but _why_? There is insufficient data, I can’t yet see what he is aiming to achieve.”

“To reveal you to the _police_ , perhaps?” John says. This whole situation is really not good. Sherlock might have been as careful as only he _could_ be, but if this Moriarty knew, then there must be something that tipped him off, and if he could find it, so can Lestrade, especially if he is being guided to it. Sherlock would be revealed. He would go to jail. It actually surprises John, the depths to which he doesn’t want that to happen. To which he wants Sherlock free to continue his insane, madcap life, even if the price is the death of others.

“No, too obvious. It wouldn’t be worthy of the _game_ , John, and this is _all_ about the game.” Sherlock looks as if he wants to jump to his feet and start pacing, but the tables don’t really allow the room. Instead he drums his fingers impatiently against the wood. “No, we need to find the flat. There will be more to go on there.”

“And if we save some poor woman’s life, that’s just a bonus isn’t it,” John says. If things had been different, if they both weren’t monsters, killers, he might have been disturbed at the callous lack of empathy Sherlock shows towards the victims of the cases he takes, but as it is he doesn’t have a moral leg to stand on. Anyway, if he’s really honest with himself he would acknowledge that his own sympathy is more mask than sincerity. He feels _something_ for her, terrified, alone, trapped... but he doesn’t know her. He’s only seen her in a photograph. The emotion doesn’t seem to stick like it used to.

“Well, it would please Lestrade,” Sherlock says, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Now, to business. The original crime will have appeared in the local newspapers. They are all on microfiche, it is only a matter of finding the right one to show Lestrade, and convince him my prodigious memory for criminality made the link to our current puzzle.”

“So you think he’s chosen to use the same flat this time around as well?” John asks.

“No, again, too obvious; John, _think_! Then where would the challenge be? Certain of the elements may be clearer to the pair of us than to the police, but this wouldn’t be interesting if he wasn’t testing me as well. No, the clues we need will be in one of those articles, I’m sure of it.”

John trusts Sherlock’s brain to come up with the answers. Moriarty might be clever, but he’s no Holmes. He sets to work. They might know the date they’re looking for, but he knows that for Sherlock to makes his deductions, every scrap of evidence will be needed. He can’t afford to miss a thing.

\----

“We’re looking for a flat with the same floor plan and layout as this one. Contact the contractor and find out what other building projects the company worked on five years ago. That will at least narrow the area down.”

Lestrade takes the photocopy from Sherlock carefully, speed reading down the article. He swears loudly when he realises what it describes. “Why _this_ murder?” he says, gesturing at Sherlock – who has commandeered one of the computer terminals – with the paper. “I remember it, vaguely. A simple open and shut homicide. The boyfriend had been cheating, the girlfriend stabbed him while he was watching Eastenders! Nothing special about it!”

“No,” Sherlock says, dragging the word out. “Of course not. But I can’t tell you why _yet_.”

Lestrade frowns. Holmes isn’t paying him any attention, clicking away at keyboard and mouse rapidly. Everything about this case so far has been strange. Normally Sherlock can’t wait to explain his ‘amazing deductive reasoning’ to him, if only to point out how stupid he finds him, but so far there has been none of that. Just tight-lipped silence, for all the usual rushing around.

“Here’s the rest of the clippings.” John Watson pushes his way through the door clutching a small heap of paper, handing half of it over to Lestrade. “All the information from the papers we could find,” he explains. “Sherlock thinks the man behind this might have used something from the articles, as a kind of clue.”

“Didn’t I say to contact the architects firm,” Sherlock says loudly, not looking up from the computer screen. “Why aren’t you doing it? Come here John, I need your presence to help me think.”

John shrugs at him sheepishly, and does as he’s told. Lestrade rolls his eyes, and heads reluctantly to do the same. Well, to tell Donovan to do it. They’ve all been feeling a bit helpless, unable to do anything, especially since Sherlock made off with the damned phone, and all the evidence with it. At least now they have somewhere to start.

\-----

“I think we should leave Lestrade’s crew of bumbling idiots to their own devices, don’t you?” Sherlock says under his breath. John has to strain to hear him. “Back to Baker Street. I find I think much better there.”

“Were you just making that up then?” John asks. “Or is that actually going to be useful?”

“It might be,” Sherlock says, pressing print. “But it certainly isn’t vital. It I’m right about a clue in those papers, and I am almost always right, it will lead us precisely to where we need to go.” He stands up, waiting impatiently for the printer to spit out whatever it is he’s found.

“We have seven and a half hours left before a woman gets her brains blown out,” John reminds him, checking his watch.

“Plenty of time then.” Sherlock snatches the sheet, folds it up, and tucks it carefully into his pocket. “I believe I grasp the basic outline of the answer already.”

John shrugs, and phones for a cab. It will be nice at least to have a cup of tea while they read through all this in terrifying detail. Mrs Hudson makes very good tea. It only occurs to him later that these days he apparently rates a hot drink at the same level on his list of priorities as a woman’s life. It should bother him more than it does. Instead he merely wonders if this is how Sherlock feels all the time.

\-----

“I hear you have a new case.”

The flat is dark, and it takes a few moments for John to place the voice. Mycroft. Of course. He _would_ turn up at an inconvenient moment like this. John may have only met him twice, but he thinks he has at least some sort of picture of the man. Sherlock flicks on the light with an irritated little sigh.

“You do have _such_ a flair for the dramatic, don’t you brother.”

“A trait common enough in our family,” Mycroft says with a small smile. He is sitting in John’s seat, playing with the handle of his umbrella.

“What are you here for now? Trying to get me to join the government again? Or perhaps there’s another opportunity for a Knighthood you wish to force upon me?” Sherlock’s sneer is truly an impressive thing. John could well believe it was practised in the mirror for maximum efficiency. He has to wonder exactly _what_ made him dislike his brother so much.

“The offer is always on the table, but that isn’t the reason I’m here.” Mycroft retrieves a file from where it was tucked between him and the chair, and holds it out. “I realise you have other concerns at the moment, but there’s no great hurry.”

“Of course, you are perfectly aware of the most minute details when something or someone of interest is entering or leaving the country, but you cannot shift yourself to clean up your own back yard,” Sherlock says nastily. John takes the folder for him, as he obviously isn’t going to touch it himself.

“My dear Sherlock, as though I would miss any opportunity to alleviate the boredom of your life.” A slick smile. “After all, who _knows_ the trouble you might get into if you had nothing to keep you occupied, hmmm?”

Sherlock tenses almost imperceptibly. John can’t help but sympathise with the reaction. That was a threat if he ever heard one. Mycroft gets to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his suit.

“So nice to see both of you again.” He heading for the door. He is halfway out of it when he pauses, turns, and says, “ _Do_ be careful Sherlock. I would hate to see anything happen to you.”  
The moment Mycroft’s footsteps have receded down the stairs, Sherlock pulls off his coat, throws it over the back of the sofa, strides to the chair his brother was just sitting in, and retrieves his violin case from beneath it. He perches on the arm of the chair and begins to pluck random notes from the strings, looking thoughtful. John raises his eyebrows, but flips open the file to have a look.

“There is no longer any question that he knows,” Sherlock says, almost to himself. “Any yet he does nothing about it.”

“Are you sure this Moriarty character isn’t him?” John asks. Missile plans. Of all the bloody things for the government to loose...

Sherlock makes a dismissive noise. “What need has he to hide behind false faces when he can irritate me so sublimely in person? No, this is a new player on the field, and Mycroft is leaving us to it.”

“What do you want me to do with this?” John says, holding up the file.

“Put it on the table, I’ll look at it later.”

“So you’re taking the case?”

“I think at the present moment, it is better for my brother to owe me a favour than not.” John can’t argue with that.

\-----

“I have it!” Sherlock finds himself rather satisfied. Mystery, such as it is, solved and ready to present to the police in such a way as they will believe it and not question, and all with five hours still to run on the clock. John turns to look at him with eyebrows raised inquisitively, waiting for the answer to be explained to him.

“It required some hacking, but the trail is clear enough. The company that leased the original flats was bought a week later by Janus Co, subsidiary of Taller & Sons, who – as the police know but can’t prove – launder money for the Irish Mafia. Then the original company sold off all their assets in the past six weeks except one. This set of flats here.” He points triumphantly to the place on Google Maps. Technology is a wonderful aid when it comes to playing the game. John comes over to peer at the laptop.

“And what makes you so sure this is connected or relevant at all?”

“We have already seen that Moriarty has links to all kinds of criminal undertakings – I think it highly unlikely that his name would have garnered the fear or respect it does otherwise – hence the mafia involvement. Acquiring such a tiny company has no obvious bonus, and the properties held were sold off at less than their own market value, presumably to shift them quickly. And finally, there is the fact that when it comes to a puzzle like this, coincidences are unlikely to be found.”

John looks impressed, as he always does. It still remains flattering though, even after this amount of time. “Far be it for me to argue,” he says. “You want me to text this address to Lestrade?”

“Yes, thank you John.” This had been relatively easy to figure out; the next one may not be so. And he is sure there will be a next one. Everything he has seen so far suggests that Moriarty is building this up to some kind of climax or confrontation. There will be build up. There will be more little games to play, more chances for him to test his mind against his enemy’s expectations. And then, finally, he will see the man capable of matching wits with him.

It’s going to be glorious.

\----

 _Treat this as a test_ , John thinks to himself, as they climb the stairs behind Lestrade. This is the first crime scene he will have been to since he started leaving his own for the police to figure out. He can’t be sure how he will react. What will he feel when he looks at the dead body? Disgust? Pleasure? Nothing at all? Before Afghanistan there had been sympathy, and since then what he has seen had covered it with a layer of numbness. He just doesn’t know what might now lurk over the top of it.

In the end, he finds he has less to fear than he thought. He feels... dispassionate. Though to be honest, did he think the moment he felt some sort of sick psycho thrill Donovan was going to jump on him with a great cry of ‘Ah-ha!’ and clap some cuffs on him? Ridiculous. Beside him, Sherlock steps forward to give the corpse a quick once over, and nods to himself. Nothing unusual then.

Lestrade nods to two policemen whose names John doesn’t know, and they open the door through to the kitchen gingerly. Perhaps they were expecting it might be booby-trapped, but as it is nothing happens, and they’re free to go in and pull the woman away from the gun and cut the ropes that bind her. John hangs back, giving them room to work. She’s crying, sobbing, “thank you, thank you,” over and over again. She is shaking and stiff from the forced position, and he can smell the sharp acrid scent of piss. Nine hours in the one place and terrified, it’s not surprising.

The woman is led away to be checked over and comforted. There will be time for the police to ask her questions later, but somewhat uncharacteristically, Sherlock doesn’t leap to start badgering away at her. John looks at him questioningly.

“She will know nothing of value. He’s not that careless,” Sherlock says to him, pressing forward to squeeze between the policemen into the kitchen. John follows him, doing the usual round of apologies.

On the table is the mechanism, nasty, lethal and homemade, though at least someone has had the sense to disconnect it from the timer. Sherlock makes a beeline for it, looking it over, whipping out his little miniature magnifying glass. “No fingerprints,” he mutters to himself as he works his way round methodically, “he’s too clever for that, unless he _wants_ me to find something. Perhaps the next clue...”

“These were on the other chair,” Lestrade says, holding up a pair of worn overalls, the kind a plumber or electrician might wear. “I’m sure they’ll mean more to you than to me.”

Sherlock goes very still. John finds himself holding his breath. Yes, those mean something alright. Sherlock’s reaction doesn’t last more than a moment though before he snatches the clothes from the DI’s hands. He holds them up to the light, turns them over, sniffs the fabric.

“These are old, four or five years, but they haven’t been worn in a while. There’s a musty smell on them; they’ve been in a drawer or wardrobe for some time. Whoever wore these was not the original owner, he’s too tall; the seam is ripped here at the back. Second hand, charity shop most likely. The sleeves,” Here he turns them over to show them all. “have been rolled up, but there is still some blood splatter. The killer wore these to gain entry to the flat, killed the man, then subdued the girlfriend and tied her up. If you’re lucky, you might be able to get some shed skin cells from the inside.” He tosses the overalls to Donovan, who has just appeared at the doorway. Surprised she still manages to catch it.

John wonders how much of what Sherlock just reeled off is true to the original. How much their enemy in this so-called game found out. It’s a little unnerving, being this close to what Sherlock has done. He hasn’t seen it yet, in real life, under better circumstances, he just remembers the offhand details he skimmed from the papers in passing. He wonders if Sherlock took pleasure in killing the man, or whether it was just the puzzle that he enjoys. Certainly he shows more enthusiasm for cases that involve murder than other crimes. It might just be that the stakes are higher.

“Anything else you can tell us?” Lestrade asks, clearly feeling a bit frustrated. “Something to go on so we can catch the bastard who did this?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not yet. This game isn’t over Lestrade. This was just the first, and this man is nearly as clever as I am.” He turns, coat whirling around him dramatically. “Come on John. We should talk. No doubt he will contact us himself soon enough.”

One down, an unspecified number more to go. John’s hand itches for his gun. He catches Lestrade’s eye on the way out. He has an odd look on his face. He can’t read it. He doesn’t have time to worry anyway. They have Moriarty to catch.

\-----

“Those overalls were nearly identical to the ones I wore,” Sherlock says, once they are back at Baker Street and safely ensconced in the living room with two cups of tea. “He must have a similar build to myself. And an eye for mimicry. Though I burnt the originals in the incinerator at St. Barts.”

“How do you think he knew all those details?” John asks. His tea is too hot, and he nearly burns his mouth on the first sip.

Sherlock shakes his head. “I imagine he could infer much once he knew which crime to look at. He must have ties to the police, no institution is entirely free from corruption. No doubt that let him gather information the general public would not have been privy to.”

“He sounds almost as well connected as your brother,” John remarks, then wishes he hadn’t as Sherlock gives him a glare that could wither even fake plastic plants.

“Speaking of Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “Someone needs to investigate this case he gave me.” John is in no doubt whom Sherlock is alluding too.

“No, Sherlock, no way. I don’t know enough... I’m not like you, able to deduce things from a glance...”

“It’s really not that difficult. I already have a fairly good picture.”

“Are you trying to get me out of the way?”

“No.” Sherlock waves a hand at the cardboard folder sitting on top of a pile of general clutter. “I would just appreciate you doing this for me.”

John doesn’t put up too much of a fight. This is Sherlock Holmes. He’s not going to win.

\----

Once John has left the flat for a meeting with Mycroft that is likely to be enjoyed by neither of the two parties, Sherlock allows himself to think. Moriarty is a mystery, a cipher, always working at two, three, four removes from his crimes. Working through puppets and intermediaries. Smart. So smart he should have popped up on the radar before. How has he managed to take over such a large slice of the criminal underworld so quietly? Four months since the first whisper of his name reached Sherlock’s ears, and he is already working to bring this to a close. Why so eager?

It is... satisfying, to have a worthy opponent like this. Mycroft is kin, it doesn’t hold the same meaning. They have been fighting each other for too long for it to still be exciting, and his brother had always had a head start. No, this is different. Engaging. Fun.

He is hungry, oh so hungry for the next puzzle to begin.

\----

He gets the phone message first, during a meeting with Lestrade at one the next day. He and John are supposed to be there to work strategy, though how useful Lestrade expects Sherlock to be in that matter he doesn’t know. Really, Sherlock just wants to know if they found anything in the flat, DNA, something that might provide even the most tenuous link to Moriarty. His hopes are not high, it has to be said.

Four pips. It too is counting down, counting the number of deaths until... what? Confrontation, perhaps? But Sherlock can’t spare the time to consider that now, not when he has just been sent the next step of the game to play. He has to bite back a laugh when he sees the picture. Moriarty is going back in reverse order. The kill before his last. ‘Accidental’ death. Always one of Sherlock’s favourites.

“What is it?” Lestrade asks, holding his hand out for the phone. Sherlock passes it over, already disinterested. He has learnt all he can from the photograph in that one quick scan of it. A manikin is standing in for the corpse; shirt open, trousers and underwear pushed down, leather noose around the neck. Autoerotic asphyxiation. Too easy to go too far; pass out with the tension still on. Oops. Suffocation. People don’t like to ask too many questions in that kind of situation.

“Fuck,” Lestrade swears, through clenched teeth. “This is what’s going to happen to the next bloke?”

John takes the phone from him to get a closer look. His reaction is rather more subdued, merely the quirk of an eyebrow. Sherlock was expecting something more, since John _must_ know that this is another mirror of one of his own kills. Behind them the door opens. Sally Donovan with a phone call for one Sherlock Holmes. No prizes for guessing who that might be.

Sherlock leaves the office to take it. A man’s voice, shuddering, frightened. Another proxy. “It’s okay that you’ve gone to the police,” the first words out of his – no, Moriarty’s – mouth.

“You’re speaking through him aren’t you,” Sherlock says, quietly. “Clever. I take it he’s the one to die if I don’t solve the case.”

“Smart sociopath Sherlock,” the man stammers. “You know who I am. And I know who you are. Who you really are. All kinds of things are bubbling to the surface now. Are you so sure it’s safe to be in Scotland Yard?”

“So far you’re the only one to connect the dots.” Sherlock’s voice drops even quieter. “How? How did you do it?”

“Maybe soon you’ll find out. I have this man’s child as leverage. He will kill himself in eight hours, unless you get to him first. Be quick, Sherlock Holmes. Kiss, kiss. Love M.”

The man hangs up. Sherlock glares at the phone, then slips it into his pocket. Donovan can have it back later. One can never have too many phones, especially when having them annoys people. And so, to business. The kill is still fresh in his memory; those are details he is well pleased to keep on his hard drive. The manikin though, that hadn’t been in a replica room. If he can deduce where it is, then the hunt will be on.

“Come on John,” he calls, pushing open Lestrade’s door. “We have a killer to catch!”

\----

It’s only the Tate fucking Modern, John thinks, somewhat bemused by where Sherlock’s mind has led them. The manikin and associated props are set up in the big empty space that takes up half the floor plan, looking for all the world like it belongs there. If he hadn’t known better, John wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see it here under normal circumstances. It looks appropriate for that kind of bizarre arty thing he can never make heads or tails of. Not really his specialty.

Sherlock is examining the exhibit minutely. No touching though; they already have one of the gallery’s employees looking at them with suspicion. Apparently this has been here for the past few days, a new piece bought from an up and coming artist. An artist who must have some connection to Moriarty.

John stands as close as he can to Sherlock so he can whisper his conclusions in his ear as he goes. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and it’s a weekend. There’s a crowd. He can’t just go spouting off about murders out loud, not that it would usually stop him, but John has shushed him twice already, and he had finally done as he was told, though not without some sulking.

“Very exact,” Sherlock whispers. “Even the pose. Nothing new I can see though. The link must be the artist.”

John looks over the scene again. It strikes an odd chord in him, though he can’t say for sure quite why, if it is just that he knows Sherlock set up something just like this, only real, or if he would feel the same way if he was an ordinary visitor. It is somehow intimate and abstract, the posture of sex combined with the blank features of the model. Dehumanised, just another faceless victim. Devoid of empathy. Much like his victims have been so far. He doesn’t see them as human, not really. If he ever tried to kill someone he knew, even if it was someone he disliked, he doesn’t think he could do it.

“Do you have much of an interest in modern art Sherlock?” John asks, curious more than anything. Sherlock doesn’t seem to have interests or hobbies outside of the job. If it isn’t related to being a consulting detective, it seems he has no use for it.

“None whatsoever,” is the not entirely unexpected reply. Sherlock stands up and looks at him. “We should talk to the curator, find out who they bought this from.”

“No need.” John smiles. “There’s a plaque right over here. The artist’s name should be on it.”  
Sherlock gives him a blinding grin right back. “I can always count on you, can’t I John.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you can.” Even to help you kill, John thinks. You can’t get much more intimate than that.

\----

The artist gives them a name. The work was on commission, she tells them, and shows them a copy of the cheque she got in the post for it. He never showed up to collect it, so she sold it to the Tate. She didn’t think he would mind. Sherlock snatches the photocopy and looks at it closely.

“He’s been planning this for quite some time,” he says quietly. “This is from February.” He frowns, deeply. “It is... unpleasant to think he got so far ahead of me.”

“An insult to your professional pride?” John asks, smirking just a little bit. He reaches out and tilts it enough to get a decent look at it. “Peter Thomson,” he reads out. “Who the hell is Peter Thomson?”

Sherlock smiles, cat-like. “The name of our would-be suicide of course,” he says, bringing out his mobile phone. John stares at him, lost. It is becoming a familiar feeling around Sherlock, though something he is starting to come to terms with. He isn’t expected to keep up, after all. Well, not mentally. When it comes to running around the city, there he has no problems.

“And how does this help us? There could be dozens of Peter Thomsons in London.”

Sherlock waves the cheque at him. “But John. We have his bank details.”

Of course. The cheque will have the account number and roll number on it, and Sherlock’s formidable computer skills will take care of the rest. And all accessible through the medium of the modern iPhone.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, tucking the photocopy into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, to the artist’s slight indignation, and heading for the exit, typing and walking at the same time. John keeps expecting him to walk into things when he does this, but whether through much practise or excellent special awareness he never has. If it ever does happen, he hopes a CCTV camera is watching somewhere. John smiles apologetically at the artist, and chases after Sherlock. No doubt they have a taxi to catch.

\----

The account is held with Lloyds, and was opened on the first of February in a branch near Piccadilly with an amount in it exactly one pound more than what the cheque took out. Things are coming together quite nicely so far, Sherlock thinks, pleased. Four or the eight hours have so far elapsed, and unless Moriarty has planted some unexpected obstacles in their way, they are right on schedule.

Persuading a timid man behind the counter to let him talk to the manager is simplicity itself. An imposing look, the mention of Lestrade’s name, threats implied by tone of voice. He almost trips over himself running to fetch her. She is a woman in her forties, married, happily more often than not, childless, though not by choice, developing arthritis in her hands, though she hasn’t been to her doctor yet, doesn’t want to bother him.

“DI Lestrade,” Sherlock says, producing another stolen warrant card, and smiling like a non-sociopathic human being. The act is simplicity itself. How easy if would be to keep it up all the time. How dull. He’d rather be Donovan’s freak than Mycroft’s softly smiling Cheshire cat. “And my colleague Dr. Watson. Police business. Very urgent. If we could have a word?”

“Oh, of course,” she says, flustered. People usually are, when you bring the police into things. All those secrets, just waiting for an observant eye and an adequate mind to bring them out into the open air. Mundane for the most part, but grasped so very tightly. In this case, the work party she never made it home from last night. Drunken fumble with the friend she stayed over with; female, from the size and shape of the bite mark skimming the collar of her shirt, and the traces of lipstick on the cotton. She leads them through into an office at the back. “Anything I can do to help.”

“We want to know about Peter Thomson.”

“Peter... is he in trouble?” Concern, genuine. “He called in sick yesterday, I haven’t seen him since.”

And there is the link. Easier than expected. The Peter Thomson who opened the account is a fake, part of Moriarty’s trail of breadcrumbs, leading right back to a man who works at this very bank. A common enough name not to arouse suspicion. “If you could give us his address, it would be most appreciated.”

“He’s not the type to do anything wrong,” the manager insists.

“We only want to ask him a few questions,” John interjects. He gives her his most trustworthy look, all do-no-harm doctor wrapped in homely woollen jumpers. As fake as Sherlock’s own smile. He has seen the true John Watson underneath, and it is so much more interesting.

The manager writes the address down for them, and Sherlock texts Lestrade to meet them there. Even if they don’t find Peter Thomson there – 40% chance of it – the DI will no doubt want to be updated on their progress. Three and a half hours. His blood is pumping. There is no drug as good as the chase.

\----

Thomson is sitting on his bed with a noose round his neck when they break down the door, and Sherlock is able to watch the emotions flicker over his face as he realises he is safe. Disbelief, dawning hope, thankfulness, and finally, he begins to sob with gratitude. Sherlock finds it a little gauche, but then he has never really been in a similar situation, where he was in fear for his life. It’s an emotion he does his best to avoid. He would like to think his reaction would be a little more restrained however.

Thomson struggles with the rope a little before forcing it over his head and off. “They still have Alex,” he says, tears streaming down his pudgy face. “They still have my boy, please, you have to do something.”

Lestrade offers him platitudes. Sherlock looks over at John, trying to judge his thoughts. So far he has been calm and collected, and seemingly unmoved, if one didn’t know what to look for in the tightness around his mouth and the fire stoked and smouldering in his eyes. John is a killer, but he _is_ still capable of feeling. Of a certain degree of empathy. Before, Sherlock thinks he might have believed it to be a weakness in a companion, but then, he had never actually expected to find someone who engaged him like this. Someone he actually feels something for. Someone he is attracted to. No, in John’s case, the empathy, slight and selective though it may be, is useful. It’s a mask as good as any of Sherlock’s, no less so for being sincerely felt. And perhaps Sherlock has a certain sentimentality towards it.

“How was he communicating with you?” Sherlock asks, once Thomson has been sufficiently calmed. “He must have had some method, texts, a pager?”

“Over here,” the man replies, somewhat shakily, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “It’s uh... Skype. The webcam messenging program, you know. I got... I got a call, he put Alex on...” He stops to take great heaving breaths. Sherlock resists the urge to tell him to get on with it in favour of taking the laptop from the table for a closer look.

“We can track the IP address,” Lestrade says. It’s a stupid suggestion, but what do you expect?

“It will get you nowhere,” Sherlock says, irritated. “Do credit him with _some_ intelligence.”

The webcam is still on, he observes. He scrolls up the previous conversation, noting the timestamps, right to the original threat. _Do as I say, or your boy will be shot_. Obviously Moriarty was monitoring the situation in the room over the internet. Very handy. Minimalist, in the amount of equipment needed.

 _Looking for me? M. x._ The sentence pops up on the bottom of the screen. Sherlock freezes. Of course he’s still watching. Naive to assume otherwise. John notices his reaction as well.

“Is that... _him_?” he asks, anger lacing the edges of his words. Sherlock makes a note of it. When they catch Moriarty, he will let John take the kill. He will enjoy it, and after all, Sherlock will have already had the game and the win, by that point. He wants to make John a present of it.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies tersely, setting the computer back on the table and leaning over it to type. _Found your man. Easy, after the Tate. I’m disappointed._

 _Then this next one will make you happy, lol, M xx._

 _It’s the child, isn’t it._

 _Four for you, Sherlock Holmes! I’ve left plenty of clues, I’m sure you’ll figure it out! M, x._

Sherlock frowns. Clues? Not that he’s seen so far, but then he hasn’t had the chance to inspect this flat yet, and perhaps when they learn when and where the child was taken...

 _I know you’ll find the link, :3 M xxxx._

 _Link. What link? Aren’t you going to send me one of your pictures?_

 _The link between the crimes of course! After all, they_ are _linked, aren’t they Sherlock. M x._

It’s a taunt, of course. Moriarty is trying to distract him. But it would make no sense for him to reveal the truth to the police. Setting up a game like this is evidence enough. They both have the same ideas, the same tendency to boredom, all the evidence points to it. This is between the two of them. Why bring in a third party at all, except as a goad, just another factor to make the danger seem that much more real. But it’s not in seriousness.

 _12 hours,_ Moriarty types, the other side of this tenuous link of electrons, _to save the child. Hope you have fun. <3 <3 M.  
_  
With each new challenge, the pleasure, the adrenaline builds up. He is on fire with it, it’s the only time he really truly feels alive. On the outside he has to remain calm for society, but on the inside? He’s smiling.

\----

“Sherlock...” John asks quietly, “how close is this going to be to what you did? Did you really kill a child?” He’s not sure he wants to know the answer. It’s not as if he imagines the moral distinction would have any meaning to the man, but... he doesn’t like to think he would go that far.

Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, his fingers steepled under his chin, nicotine patches dotting his arm. His eyes flicker open at John’s words. “No,” he replies. “That at least is all Moriarty’s invention. But I have no doubt the other particulars will all be accurate. It is not a particularly pleasant death. I was in the mood for getting my hands dirty.”

John rubs at his forehead. He has had too little sleep with these cases, and a headache is threatening. A certain degree of moral conflict is not exactly helping. It’s only been two weeks since the kill Sherlock set up, and he’s not... he’s not quite come to terms with all this yet. “And... have you ever...?”

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes close again. “When children die, it draws too much attention. I do this because I have to, because there are never enough engaging problems in London to keep my mind occupied. I don’t take risks. I might enjoy the challenge, but I enjoy not being in prison far more. Can you imagine how _dull_ it must be in there?”

It is a surprising weight of his mind to know he’s never... even if Sherlock’s reasons _are_ more logical than moral. There’s just something about the idea of hurting kids that doesn’t sit right. John would like to think he still has _some_ standards, poor though they might now be. He knows he’s a bit of a sick, sadistic bastard these days, but he could be worse. And so could Sherlock. That’s what makes him different from this Moriarty. It’s a thin line, oh so thin, but when you’re the kind of people they are, it’s all you’ve got. Even if only _they_ would see it that way.

“So, what should we be expecting?” John asks, fiddling with a piece of somewhat questionable toast. It’s just after midnight by now, and while Sherlock may not be subject to the weaknesses of ordinary mortals, John is another matter. There’s fuck all to eat in the flat though, and the last of this week’s takeaway money went on sodding taxis.

“A mugging gone wrong.” Sherlock cracks a hint of a smile. “I know, it’s not really me is it. But it’s a common enough occurrence in the city that the police don’t think anything amiss of it. I don’t believe anyone was ever even charged.” John’s blood runs cold.

“And... that’s going to happen to some poor kid if we don’t stop it. Christ! He’s not more than twelve!”

“Mmm, as I said, it got a bit messy. Knives. Much more intimate than a gun. You should try it some time, it might strike your fancy.”

“I don’t think this is really an appropriate time,” John says hotly. There’s a little part inside of him that perks up at the idea, of really _feeling_ it when their life slips away from them, as they choke out their last breath and the light goes out of their eyes, but he forces it down. Not. The. Time. Some kid could die, and he wants to... No!

“Nothing at their home,” Sherlock says, thinking out loud. “Taken on the way from the bus stop to the flat, no obvious signs of a struggle that would tell us exactly where. Moriarty has men working for him, he must do, too much to do alone. Clues, he said there were clues, but _where_?”

John drops his head into his hands. He hates being able to do nothing, but this is what Sherlock does. There’s nothing he can say that Sherlock won’t have though of already. He just has to sit here and act as a sounding board.

“You can go to sleep if you want,” Sherlock says. “I have an errand for you to run in the morning in any case.”

“And let you stay up all night? I don’t think so. Sherlock, you need to sleep as well, you’ll end up collapsing from exhaustion. You’ve done it before. No, I’m not going to bed until you do.”

“Then perhaps I should join you there,” Sherlock says, raising an eyebrow. “Sexual release has, in the past, been beneficial to my thinking process.”

John stares at him with a mixture of embarrassment, surprise and lust, but he really can’t say no to an offer like that, dammit. He can never say no to Sherlock. “Riding crop?” he suggests hopefully.

Sherlock gives him a look dark with want. “Why not?”

He forgets to ask about the errand.

\-----

Sherlock’s skin is ghostly pale, the long planes of his back stretched out against the sheets. Unmarked. Flawless. John trails the tip of the crop down the length of his spine, teasing. Sherlock’s breath hitches. It’s a beautiful sound. His hands twist in the rope around his wrists. John lets the anticipation grow. He thinks, secretly, that Sherlock likes not being able to quite predict this. That that’s one of the reasons he gets off on this.

He raises his arm and brings the crop down hard. The sound of leather smacking on flesh is fucking gorgeous. Sherlock lets out a little whine of pleasure, arching under the blow. John lays down the strokes methodically, criss-crossing up his ribs, striping his shoulder-blades, leaving red marks in his wake. Not enough to raise blood, not yet. He wants to take his time.  
The repetitive movements, and Sherlock’s muffled cries of pain, act together to lull him almost into a trance. His mind is quiet of stray thoughts, concentrated on Sherlock alone, on the impact of the crop, on the welts rising on his perfect, pale skin, on the sounds he make that go straight to John’s cock.

It’s the pain, John knows that he gets off on inflicting pain, but it’s not the same as taking a life, and he wouldn’t want it to be. He wants this power, this control, but he wants it so he can protect Sherlock. Take care of him. Give him what he needs. Make him fall apart in his hands and surrender that iron will. Maybe it all comes from the same place, but he would never take Sherlock further than he wanted to go.

He puts the crop down on the mattress and leans forward, digging his fingernails into the marks he has made, raising blood and making Sherlock cry out in what sounds like near ecstasy. John can’t help but dip his head and lap at the beads of red, tasting it, soothing the hot skin. Sherlock twists his head to look at him. He looks drugged on the endorphins.

“John. John. I want you to fuck me,” he says softly, stretching underneath him, rubbing himself against John’s hard cock. Well, John thinks, it would be rude to refuse.

He doesn’t bother with too much in the way of preparation, just slicks himself up with a little lube, and pushes in slowly. It feels glorious, sinking himself into Sherlock’s body, feeling him clench around him and push back towards him, letting out breathy moans that choke a little with the burn he must be feeling. It is hurting him just right.

He begins to move, long, patient thrusts, Sherlock’s body pulled tight against him, streaks of blood smearing from his back over John’s chest. He bites down on the point between neck and shoulder, and Sherlock shouts, wordless, needy. Love, John thinks to himself, I love him. Maybe he has loved him since the moment they met, or since he first saw Sherlock at a crime scene, explaining the particulars of death with a calm voice and no pause for breath, or since Sherlock showed him what it was to kill because you could, because you wanted it, enjoyed it, _loved_ it.

Whatever it is, whenever it was, he knows, he’s sure, he loves him. He whispers it into Sherlock’s curls, damp with sweat, with a hand around his throat that is possessive, not choking, with his nails scoring lines in his skin, and as he comes, buried balls deep in him.

John closes his eyes, but only for a moment, before he pulls out and flips Sherlock over, just enough slack in the rope to manage it, and brings him to completion with the heat of his mouth and the skill of his tongue. He doesn’t need Sherlock to say the words back to him. He knows anyway.

\----

Sherlock sprawls out on the bed, muscles relaxed and buzzing pleasantly, the pain from his back a comfortable warm burn. John is asleep next to him, curled into his side, a possessive arm thrown over his waist. It will be something of a pity to leave, but there is a problem that needs solving, and not all that long to solve it in. And so far he has no leads. Moriarty promised him clues, but he hasn’t yet seen them. The thought that this man might _actually_ manage to best him... It’s infuriating. But he is determined, and he knows where he must go next.

Once, some years ago, in the time between leaving Cambridge and discovering the fun that could be had as a consulting detective, Sherlock had lived on the streets. It had been a logical choice, or so he had told himself at the time. Mycroft was busy working his way up through the ranks in Whitehall, and he didn’t have the pull or the time to keep as close a meddling eye as he would probably have liked, so it only made sense to Sherlock to take the money he sent for rent, and use it to buy cocaine. What use was a place to stay to him when his mind was stagnating through sheer, crippling boredom? The drugs were the only thing that made his existence bearable. They were the only thing that was important.

Being a homeless junkie was certainly less dull than being an unemployed student. The people were more engaging for one, and being forced to find places to camp out when his body obliged him to obey petty human impulses like sleep did marvels for his knowledge of London’s back alleys and other hidden places. At the time, he hadn’t anticipated how useful these connections would become in his line of work, but as it is, he can’t really find it in him to regret those months, and what he learnt in them.

Peter Thomson’s flat was in a rather average area of London, but it had its seedy side, and there were always the homeless. Sherlock kept up his contacts within London’s underbelly, and though he didn’t know anyone in the area personally, he knew how to get people talking. If anyone had seen anything, it would be them.

Careful enquiry until two in the morning eventually found him a woman who claimed to have seen something. She is thin and twitchy, paranoia, certainly indicative of some form of mental illness, but she is lucid enough when she speaks to him. She saw a man pulling a kid through an alleyway to a building site where a white van waited, bundling him into the back. He must have given the kid something, because he wasn’t crying out. It does not entirely surprise Sherlock to find out that the site belonged to Taller & Sons, the same company that owned the flats in Moriarty’s first case.

He gets a description of the man, 5’11, red hair, wearing jeans, working boots, a leather jacket and gloves. A faded scar across the right cheek. Sherlock thanks her, pays her well, and leaves. Well, he has something to go on at least. Certainly a career criminal, so he will probably be in Scotland Yard’s database, but there isn’t enough time to trek halfway across London at this time of night and be hassled by the lethargic reaction times of the police. No, Moriarty won’t have chosen this man at random. He knows what can be done in the time given, and solving it _will_ be possible. He just has to _think_.

 _Oh_. Oh _yes_. Red hair, the scar, the mugging, even the original area it had taken place in. Put them all together... Jacob ‘Stabber’ Wilson, a small time thief he had helped but away for assault with a deadly weapon some time near the start of his career. He had worked that same area of Soho. He has to give Moriarty this; the parallels are rather pleasing. Well. He has a name as well. Find Wilson, find the child, solve the puzzle. He gets out his phone to call Lestrade.

\----

Three hours later, at six in the morning, and with three hours left to go on the clock before Alex Thomson is worked over with a switchblade and dumped behind a skip somewhere, they have made infuriatingly little progress. Wilson has returned to the same address in Soho, but he hasn’t been back there since midday yesterday, and no-one has seen him since. Of course, Sherlock wasn’t really expecting to find him hiding the child in his flat, no, that would be too easy. And he can get a lot done in three hours, if he has the data to work with. However Wilson appears to be unnervingly good at hiding his tracks. It has to be Moriarty’s doing.

In a spare moment, Sherlock takes the time to text John with a wake up call. Mycroft will send a car round at quarter past six, since he has been persuaded that settling for John’s ‘help’ in solving the Bruce-Parrington case is better than no help at all. Legwork. It is beneath Mycroft’s sense of dignity. But it will give John something to do, something to take his mind off this case.

Message sent, Sherlock tucks his phone back into his inside pocket and takes another look around the flat. Something, there must be _something_ here that will tell him where the man has gone. Bedroom spartan, some fold-out posters from Nuts magazine on the walls – how puerile – clothes in the wardrobe recently laundered, no scents or fibres or dirt to give him any clues. Takeout menus in one of the kitchen drawers, foil cartons in the bin, so a possible place to start at least, though it’s unlikely anyone will know him well enough to predict his movements, and even a man as lazy as Wilson won’t be ordering in breakfast. Stacks of DVDs – pirates – by the 40” TV – stolen – in the living room, two threadbare old sofas, a bag of marijuana left lying on the coffee table.

Sherlock frowns in annoyance. All the haunts he recalls from the last time he encountered Wilson have drawn a blank. Lestrade and his men are checking out all the deserted buildings in the area, those they don’t need warrants for, but so far they have turned up nothing. But it won’t be that obvious. Either Moriarty has provided somewhere for the man to go to ground, or he is with one of his criminal friends. There isn’t enough time to search all the possibilities. Not without help, and even Lestrade can’t get warrants that fast.

Think, think, think! There _has_ to be something, there _has_ to be.

Three hours left. But pressure, that’s good. He always thinks better under pressure. He won’t give Moriarty the satisfaction of letting him win.

\----

Things do not turn out as planned. Sherlock realises this at half past eight when he runs up against yet another dead end, a blind alleyway that is too carefully constructed to be anything but planned. Moriarty has made good on his promise to make things harder for him, and now... well now, there’s a chance that he might just get the better of him.

It’s not something he would like to even admit is possible. It’s hard enough when Mycroft catches him out, and at least then he has the comfort of knowing they share DNA. Unless Mummy has been up to something none of them know about, Moriarty is a different beast altogether. An unknown constant, a free radical, silent and deadly as polonium. Perhaps they won’t kill him, when they catch him. He’s entertaining. It might be playing with fire, but when has Sherlock ever been afraid of getting burnt? Maybe they can take this game further, stretch it out longer. But he has to be cautious for now. He still doesn’t know if there’s a deeper motive than fun behind all this. He has John’s safety to think about now, not just his own.

The problem is there are too many places in Soho to dump a body. Even accounting for the parameters which have to be roughly the same – he’d shared the clippings of the original murders with Lestrade an hour before, just to give some kind of impression that he still knew what he was doing, he hates feeling powerless like this, when there’s no safe-word to make it all go away – it still leaves too much ground for them to cover. And white vans are too common to look out for.

30 minutes. Wilson may already be in position with the boy. He’s not going to solve it in time. Well, it _is_ galling, but he can let Moriarty have this one. He’s got two out of three, and two more to go. Getting angry now would just give his enemy an advantage.

But he’s not going to give up quite yet. Half an hour is longer than it seems. Even a near-win is better than none.

\-----

There’s blood everywhere. It’s the first thing John notices. The dawn light shines through the clouds, illuminating the pools of red running along the depressions between the cobblestones. Ten pints of blood in an adult male, seven or eight in a boy. It’s still enough to paint swathes of ground crimson. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever seen, but it certainly ranks pretty highly. He should feel... horror. Sorrow at the least. He ought to know by now those feelings aren’t coming back. Not even for a kid.

Sherlock is waiting for him by the police tape, tense with something like anger, eyes blazing, fists shoved deep into his pockets. Of course, it won’t be because a child is dead, oh no, John knows him better than that. He’s angry because Moriarty beat him. Because he couldn’t solve the problem in time. That’s all. It should make John sick. But how can it, when he’s shared a bed with this man, shared his heart, shared his darkest self, the self that wants to trail fingers through this blood just to see what patterns it would make, to track spatter he has seen many times before, while people he knew died beneath his hands, from bullets, from shrapnel, deaths he couldn’t _control_ like he controls these new ones...

He puts it out of his mind. Later. Later. When this is all over, he and Sherlock will have time to do whatever they want. Whatever they need. But for the moment there’s a little huddled body poking out from behind the hulking metal skip, someone they – _he_ – couldn’t save, and in an hour or two there will be another picture on the pink phone, and someone else’s life on the line.

“He’s smarter than I initially gave him credit for,” Sherlock says quietly. “I’ve been chasing his ghosts all night.”

“You’ll catch him in the end though,” John says, trying to reassure him. Sherlock makes a non-committal noise.

“We shall see. In the meantime, do you want to have a look at some of his handiwork?”

John stoops under the tape, and they walk over. A queasy-looking Anderson is checking over the body, and John doesn’t have to have Sherlock’s powers of deduction to work out that he’s been pulled out of bed for this, from the messed hair and unshaven stubble. Anderson with a beard, now there’s a frightful thought. “What do you mean _his_ handwork?” he asks. “You said in your text it was some guy named Wilson.”

“He was certainly instrumental in the kidnap and the drop-off, but I find it highly unlikely that he killed our victim. The wounds are nearly identical to those in the original case, and I don’t credit the man with such a degree of skill or meticulousness. No, it must have been Moriarty.”

Getting a closer look at the body has more of an effect than it did at a distance. Perhaps John isn't as numb as he thought. Even in Afghanistan seeing dead kids wasn’t all that common. It happened, yes, but not often. It’s strange, feeling some genuine sorrow instead of the usual blankness. Children... children are different. He looks very pale, now most of the blood has drained out of him. Whatever colour his clothes were originally, they’re sodden with blood, and sliced up in too many places to count.

“That’s just... vicious,” John says softly. Sherlock’s face twists with an emotion he can’t quite place.

“Unfortunately he has left us with very few clues to work with,” he says coolly. “Some brick dust from the building site where he was taken, the scent of marijuana from the house where he was kept. The tox screen will undoubtedly show some form of sedative; they would have wanted him quiet and passive until the time came.”

John feels... frustrated, more than anything just now. What use was he to this kid? He didn’t spend any time helping Sherlock over these past few hours; instead he had been sleeping, and then stuck in an stifling office with Mycroft Holmes. He should have tried to do something more. His hand itches for the feel of his gun. He wants to feel that power again, that control. Or a knife, like Sherlock suggested. He would gladly take the opportunity to carve Moriarty’s skin off inch by inch right now.

“So what do we do next?” he asks.

“We have to wait. He will send us our next case soon enough.”

“God, it can’t come too soon,” John sighs. He is suddenly starving. He hasn’t eaten since that slice of toast last night. He wants out of here. This blood is not his kind of blood, not really. “Let’s go. We can wait for his call somewhere else.”

Sherlock nods. He is not looking too great himself. Not that this will persuade him to eat at all. He is stubborn, and that is one of the reasons John still has high hopes for the outcome of this whole affair. Sherlock may have been beaten once, but he will not allow it to happen again.

\-----

“How did your meeting with Mycroft go?” Sherlock asks casually, once they leave the crime scene. John has insisted on finding somewhere for a proper breakfast. Sherlock may be capable of surviving on air and nicotine, but he needs actual, solid calories.

“Well,” he says. “It went well.” Sherlock gives him an amused look that says he doesn’t believe a word of it, but doesn’t actually contradict him, thank God. It’s too early in the morning to start their usual back and forth, and he’s not in the mood for it. He has no idea how Sherlock is so chipper, even if he _is_ a sociopath, and that is not even counting what they got up to last night. No-one would ever guess he’d been whipped hard enough to draw blood not nine hours ago. It must still hurt, surely. He’s not showing it though. Not even a wince. Nothing seems to affect him.

“What about in here?” Sherlock suggests, pointing off to the side. The place looks clean and cheap and it does tea, says the board in the window, though probably not very good tea. It’ll do.

They take a little table next to the wall. John orders a full breakfast and a mug of milky tea, and Sherlock orders nothing. John gives him a reproving look. “You ought to eat _something_ you know,” he says. “Running on empty like this isn’t good for you.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says dismissively. He is playing with the pink phone, turning it over and over in his hands. Waiting impatiently for the next call. John hopes there is a delay. So many cases, one after the other with no time to rest... Sherlock will burn himself out if he’s not careful.

“What should we be expecting?” he asks while they wait. “For the next one, I mean.”

“Nicotine poisoning,” Sherlock replies somewhat dismissively. John’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I think I saw that on an episode of Midsomer Murders once.”

Sherlock gives him a withering look. “I don’t watch crime dramas,” he says icily. “Murders that any half-wit could solve in ten minutes are prolonged for hours, and all so often the evidence is suborned to the narrative. And then there are abominable pieces of excrescence like the CSI franchise. I managed to get through eleven and a half minutes of that before I was forced to throw a book through the television screen.”

“Ah,” John says. “Sorry I brought it up.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock settles down again like a raven with all its feathers ruffled. “Posing as a pharmacist, I infused the steroid cream of a post office worker suffering from psoriasis with increasing doses of liquid nicotine, which I synthesised from my patches in the lab at Bart’s. The initial symptoms are rather like the flu, leading slowly to death. Nicotine is eliminated rapidly from the body, so it is difficult to detect on autopsy, and as the man was a smoker anyway, small amounts of the drug would be expected.”

“Brilliant!” John doesn’t even realise he’s thinking it until the words come out. He shouldn’t be impressed by the matter of fact way in which Sherlock just described how he’d killed a man, but he is. He _really_ is. It’s not even his kind of murder, far too impersonal, but he can’t deny the ingenuity. Or the thrill he gets from it. He can imagine what it would be like, having Sherlock whisper into his ear murder after murder while they fucked. The idea is _unbelievably_ erotic. He’ll have to suggest it to Sherlock the next time he gets a chance. He has to think about Margaret Thatcher in the nude to quell his rising erection.

Sherlock smiles. “Thank you John. And I believe this is your breakfast coming now.”

It is, and he suddenly regrets the earlier mental image. Still, when the smell hits his nose his hunger comes back, sharp as before. John tucks in ravenously. He is absolutely starving. It reminds him of back when he was a medical student, after a long morning in the dissection theatre coming out stinking of formaldehyde, and famished. It was a strange phenomenon that, but he was hardly the only one it happened to.

Sherlock watches him eat, conversation stalled. His impatient fidgeting has started up again. John is halfway through his baked beans when there is a distinctive beep. _You have one new message._ Sherlock stiffens, and opens it up.

 _Beep. Beep_. Two pips this time. Countdown. And then a photograph. Sherlock looks confused. “That could be anyone!”

John shakes his head. It’s nice to know something Sherlock doesn’t for once, although there are some implications here he doesn’t like... “Lucky for you I actually watch the news from time to time.” He checks his watch. “One of the breakfast shows might be talking about it, just let me see...” He goes over to the counter and picks up the TV remote with a smile at the waitress. When she doesn’t tell him off, he turns it on and has a quick flick through the channels. News24 would be useful right about now, but it’s not like this place has a digital box.

“ _Here with us today to talk about the recent death of top civil servant Robert Carlton, political editor for_ The Guardian _Simon Wheeler..._ ” John puts the remote down and looks back at Sherlock, who has gone very still and focussed. Then suddenly he gets to his feet and, motioning for John to follow him, sweeps out of the cafe. John runs after him, cursing Sherlock’s long legs and hurried pace.

“God you’re in a hurry!” he says when he manages to catch up.

In answer Sherlock merely hold up the phone so John can see the text on the screen; _12 hours, starting now. Who killed Mr Carlton? Have fun! <3 <3_

“But why would Moriarty have told us to look into a murder that’s already happened? It’s not as if you can stop it, it’s too late! It doesn’t fit the pattern!”

“Then someone else’s life is at stake here. But more importantly,” Sherlock muses, “why hasn’t Mycroft mentioned anything about this? A civil servant? It is impossible that he doesn’t know that this wasn’t a natural death.”

“Well maybe he’s looking into it himself?” John suggests. “I mean, you said he doesn’t like legwork, but he wouldn’t have to go far to look into this, would he?”

“This man has been dead for a week. Mycroft would have the discovered the culprit and had him taken care of within two or three days, depending on how lazy he was being. If there is still a case for Moriarty to give us...” He trails off, looking thoughtful. John’s heart sinks.

“You don’t think your brother... might have some kind of connection to this?”

“I don't know,” Sherlock says carefully. “But there was a reason he gave me the Bruce-Parrington case and not this one. Perhaps solving them both will lead us closer to an answer. In the meantime though, this is the one we must focus on. We have a deadline to make.”

John nods. Yes, best not to consider the possibility that the Holmes family have turned out two uncatchable serial killers... or whatever else Mycroft might be doing. “So,” he says, “where to first?”

\-----

It all comes back to that bloody pink phone. Lestrade has spent the past 48 hours – minus catnaps whenever there was time – running around at Sherlock’s command while the man refused to tell him a single fucking concrete thing. Who was the man behind this? What were his motives? What was the relevance of the crimes he picked to re-enact, the model of gun? Why _Sherlock_?

And it _was all_ for Sherlock. Lestrade would have had to have been blind not to see that this was exactly the kind of case the detective always leapt to investigate. Someone was designing this for Sherlock, and he’s sure the man knew who. And in typical contrary style, he wasn’t going to tell anyone. It really astounded him sometimes how irritating he could be. Half the time he couldn’t wait to spout off the most infinitesimal details of the killer immediately on seeing the crime scene, and the other half he kept the whole story to himself until he decided it was time to take pity on them all and reveal the apparently blindingly obvious truth.

Lestrade scrubs his fingers through his hair. He needs a shower, and his bed, but he’s not about to get either of those things any time soon. Sherlock has just sent him a text message saying that they were investigating the murder of that civil servant who had been in the news recently. Everyone had said that it was natural, cause of death unknown. Now it turns out it’s a bloody _murder_!

Sherlock _has_ been acting oddly though, even for him. John Watson, too, has been a bit twitchy. Nothing he can really put his finger on, but he trusts his instincts. There’s _something_. Something in Sherlock’s eyes like recognition each time they got to a crime scene. The odd phrasing of some of what this ‘M’ had said in the Skype chat logs. The _lack_ of Watson’s reaction at the kid’s murder. He doesn’t know what it is. It may be nothing. But if it’s there, he intends to find it.

God help him when he does.

\-----

“We need to find out how the killer introduced the poison into his system,” Sherlock explains to John during the taxi journey over. “That will allow us to deduce his or her identity, and save the life of whomever Moriarty has chosen as his hostage.” And he is certain of how that hostage will be killed if they fail. It is hardly chance that the same model of gun has been reoccurring during these cases. And yet other than proving that Moriarty knows about John – something he would have taken as read anyway – Sherlock can’t fathom the purpose of it. But perhaps his enemy is showing that he thinks of them as a unit, now that John has become so very close to him, his partner, his lover, his friend... He has never had someone make up such a large part of his life before.

Sherlock puts it out of his mind. It _is_ important, but the current case is more so. Mycroft has been acting very strangely of late. Bringing him mundane cases, dropping hints about Sherlock’s extra-curricular activities, ignoring this latest death... Mycroft _has_ to know about Moriarty. But does Moriarty know about Mycroft? Perhaps Mycroft is giving Sherlock this as some kind of gift, one of those ‘big brother’ overtures of familial feeling he so likes, no matter how many times they are thrown back in his face. It seems the most likely possibility. Especially if Mycroft turns out to want something from him later.

He calls ahead. Members of the public cannot simply walk up to the doors of government offices and ask to speak to reception, no matter how much more convenient that might be. It isn’t what he would like, but Mycroft’s name is what will get him through the door. After that, getting any further will be a matter of bluffing and acting. Luckily, he is very good at both of those things.

“This is the Cabinet Office sir, office of the Cabinet Secretary speaking.”

“I am sure you are acquainted with my brother, Mycroft Holmes,” Sherlock says, in his best public school drawl. There is a long and rather nervous silence on the other end of the phone while the call is put through to the man in charge.

“Ah the junior Mr Holmes,” the Secretary says, with clearly false warmth. “I regret I am not as familiar with yourself as with your brother. However, I would be very happy to help you with anything Mycroft needs.”

Sherlock smiles. Oh yes, junior civil servant indeed. If Mycroft wanted, he could be master of most of the globe. But Sherlock suspects he’ll be happy with the Commonwealth. “My brother has instructed me to take a look into the death of Mr Carlton,” he says, though the lie does not come easily. Mycroft orders him nowhere he doesn’t already want to go. “If you could make the way clear for myself and my associate, I am sure he would be much obliged.”

“Of course, Mr Holmes, of course,” the man says. “I shall instruct the door to let you in the moment you arrive.”

The journey to Whitehall is not long, even in the morning traffic. John pays the cabbie, and Sherlock leads them through the doors of the Cabinet Office, which as promised, open up before them, and into the inner sanctum of government. Of course, this is the second time today that John has been here, although if Sherlock knows Mycroft, they will have come in by much less obvious route.

He ignores the suspicious stares of security. They are paid to be suspicious, after all, even if one glance can tell him which are very, very, bored, and which actually do this job out of some sense of patriotism, and are therefore the most dangerous. Dull. They probably think they’re subtle as well, in well cut suits, carrying on low conversations like perfectly normal civil servants. Ugh. Idiots. He can think of five ways to bring a weapon past them already, and he’s not even trying.

“Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft sent me,” he lies easily to the man who meets them in the hallway. “I’m here to talk to some of Robert Carlton’s... colleagues. This is Dr John Watson, an associate of mine. He may be trusted as I can.” John raises an eyebrow at that, but otherwise doesn’t give anything away to the casual observer.

The man nods, and leads them up the stairs to the offices of the deputy director. Of course they didn’t check Sherlock’s claim, even though Mycroft said nothing of the sort, but anyone who is acquainted with his brother is far too afraid of annoying the man to contradict his younger sibling. It wouldn’t be the first time that Sherlock has used his name to get in to places, and it generally gets ratified afterwards. Generally.

“Was Mr Carlton particularly close to anyone here?” he asks, as they ascend.

“No more than any of the upper brass to their subordinates. But of course, he will be sorely missed. I am told he was pleasant to work for. And he was very good at his job.”

“Water cooler gossip eh?” John says under his breath. Sherlock risks a hint of a smile in return.

“How many people had access to him every day, or could be in his office without an appointment?” Sherlock asks their guide. Narrow the pool of suspects. They only have twelve hours, and if this is anything like the last one...

“Not many. He has two secretaries working shifts, plus his security detail, and a couple of people on research and whatever else needs doing. Obviously Mr Carlton was a very busy man, and he had many requirements on his time, but anyone else was only allowed in by appointment.” He has very calm body language, this man, Sherlock notes, but it isn’t enough to fool him. He has been trained to control himself, but a little worry slips through anyway. Not the sort of worry that would make him a suspect, merely the everyday kind of worry – why are they here, does this mean there was something suspicious about Carlton’s death? Not unusual questions.

They are shown down a corridor and through into a group of offices. Work continues much as usual, despite the recent loss of the man in charge. No doubt Carlton’s successor will be moving in soon enough. Sherlock takes everything in, all the little details that most people are too stupid to see. Female secretary at the first desk they see, late twenties, frequents a very exclusive BDSM dungeon on the weekends, owns a snake, when bored, likes to fantasize she secretly works for MI5. Her male counterpart, standing talking to her, younger, recently started working in the Cabinet Office and a little too arrogant because of it, shares a flat with a friend from college. Nothing suspicious or surprising yet.

“I need you to go through their desks while I talk to them,” Sherlock says to John under his breath.

“What? That’s an invasion of privacy Sherlock!” John looks affronted, though Sherlock can’t imagine why.

“One of them is likely to be our killer. Come John. You’ve done far worse things.”  
John glares at him. Still, he can hardly deny it. “Alright, you git,” he says. “But I hope you know I can’t pick locks.”

“If necessary I will deal with that later.” He motions their guide over to set things up.  
Once all the members of the team have filed into Carlton’s office one by one and Sherlock has been allowed to talk to them, and poke around a little bit, the case is almost laughably easy to solve. Carlton had been having an affair with one of his researchers, stringing her along with the usual promises of leaving his wife for her, and then, once he had gotten bored, dumped her rather cruelly. And then presumably she had somehow run into Jim Moriarty, who had told her how to poison someone without anyone figuring out it was murder. Unless a certain criminal mastermind decided to point it out, that is.

It’s too easy. There has to be more to it than this. He still has ten hours left, and Moriarty has a strong enough estimate of his mental powers to know this won’t have taken him long to solve. So what else is he meant to be doing here? What part of the puzzle has he missed?

Ah. The hostage. A person whose identity is still a mystery, along with their location. But there must be a connection, something that will lead him to them. A friend of the researcher’s, perhaps? Someone else from the Civil Service?

No, he’s still missing something. Maybe he’s been missing something for a while, considering how he failed to solve the last case before the boy’s death. Connections, connections... He can’t think here. He has to go back to Baker Street, and the hastily assembled mind map covering up the holes in the wall. His violin and his skull and his nicotine patches. He calls for John, and they leave in a hurry, Sherlock offering excuses about his ‘ongoing investigation’, which is true enough, for a given value of true.

Moriarty is good at playing this game. This is the first real challenge Sherlock has had in a long time. But he’s not going to loose a round again.

\----

John can’t help but feel a little bit like he’s being run ragged this morning. Despite getting some sleep last night, which is more than can be said for Sherlock, they have still been darting here and there and all over London for the past... God, it feels like a week, but it’s only been 46, maybe 47 hours all told. Still, Sherlock seems to be taking it as an opportunity to show off his frankly inhuman levels of endurance, and enjoying it all the while.

“You need to finish off the case from Mycroft,” Sherlock says, during the cab ride back to Baker Street.

“What? Don’t you think we have bigger problems to worry about?” John says, once he’s got over the initial sense of affront at being sent off on his own again. Sherlock shifts round in his seat to face him more comfortably.

“John, while I appreciate having you as a sounding board, Mycroft is in a position to prove very... inconvenient for the both of us. Believe me, I am not happy, but those are the facts.”

“And you really think I can solve this? Me?” John asks. Sherlock gives him an enigmatic smile and nothing else. It makes him immediately suspicious. He thinks he knows Sherlock well enough by now to tell when he’s being obtuse. Well, if he wants to go off somewhere and be mysterious about it he’s welcome to, and it isn’t as though John could stop him.

“Just...” He sighs. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find the hostage before the time is up.” It’s a bit harsh, he realises once the words leave his mouth, considering how the last one turned out. But Sherlock doesn’t take it that way, thankfully.

No, Sherlock’s lips twitch upwards; the faint ghost of a smirk. It’s a familiar look – I know something you don’t. It actually hurts a little, that he is still keeping secrets after all this, after how close they are too each other now. But John supposes he never really expected Sherlock to change that much. Kill a man together, and what do you get? Well, a rather stimulating sex life, obviously, but apparently not the kind of emotional closeness that would usually come with. Maybe Sherlock isn’t truly capable of it. But it _would_ be _nice_.

In any case, John now has this damn _errand_ to run, and he’s going to do his best to solve it. It’s a terrible thing to try and impress a genius, but he’ll give it a bloody good shot.

\-----

John is crouching over the rails, creating pictures in his head of all the blood that _ought_ to be there but isn’t, sticky and clotted blood brown with time and stinking in a way that would remind him of the war, when he is startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock’s velvety voice calling out to him. He stands up quickly. Sherlock wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t found something.

“Good, you’ve worked it out. West wasn’t killed here, that’s why there’s so little blood.” Or not. John narrows his eyes.

“Yes. And you’ve known this for how long?”

Sherlock ignores the question. “We’ve got some burglary to do. Come on.” So Sherlock wanted him out of Baker Street? Or for some other reason. What’s he playing at?

“Burglary... regarding Carlton or West?”

“West. Moriarty can wait.”

“Sherlock!” John has to near run to catch up with him, as usual. He hates having shorter legs at times like these. “What do you mean he can wait? Someone’s life is on the line!”

“He gave us 12 hours. We have nine left. There’s time.”

“You’ve worked something out haven’t you?”

Sherlock smiles, looking pleased. “Connections, John, it’s all about connections. Hurry up, I’ll explain on the way there.”

\-----

“The copies have been connected to the originals all along. More than the obvious,” Sherlock explains, eyes flashing with typical animation and excitement at solving a case, at being able to show off his brilliance. “Stupid! If I had been coming at this blind, if I had not already _known_ the reason behind the choice of crimes, I would have seen it. Number one, domestic murder, the woman was a distant cousin of the original. Number two, asphyxiation, Thomson used to work with the man at the Bank of England. Three, mugging, Wilson was the original suspect for the crime before he provided an alibi, it never appeared in the case notes. And four, poisoning. The hostage will have something to do with the man I killed.”

John’s heart is beating faster; he can feel it thumping in his chest, caught up in Sherlock’s excitement. God, it’s so intricate, it must have taken so much planning, how long has Moriarty been setting all this up? “So... you know who it is? The hostage?”

“It is only a matter of elimination,” Sherlock says. “It’s drudge work, so I gave it to Lestrade. No, _this_ case is what interests me now. Do you think it’s coincidence that Mycroft gave it to me now, when we are in the middle of Moriarty’s game? It could have waited. The drive can’t have left the country yet or my brother would have picked it up, and if the thief hasn’t tried to move it, it is unlikely he will any time soon. It could have waited.”

“You think Mycroft is trying to distract you from solving the cases?” That... makes no sense whatsoever.

“No, I am saying that they may be _linked_.” Sherlock turns his head to peer at the street through the cab window. “Here we are.”

It’s all plans within plans within plans, and it is making John’s head hurt. Sherlock might think it would be boring-slash-restful to have a normal-person brain, but John can’t even imagine how stressful it would be to have a _Sherlock_ brain. This is insane, all of it. But honestly? He wouldn’t miss it for the world.

\----

Overconfidence. That is the only reason Sherlock can think of that excuses his oversight. _Connections_! Moriarty had even _told_ him so in the Skype conversation. It is practically unforgivable, to be so blind. But he has it now, and Lestrade is thorough, if not clever, and case number four will soon be wrapped up. He has the missile plans in his pocket, and he is ahead of the game. He has the luxury of time.

Moriarty knows him very well. He knows about the murders, he has a sure grasp of his psychology, he knows what gets him off. Speaking mentally, of course. He has no desire to cheat on John, who is a continually satisfying conundrum of his own, and so delightfully twisted by the war. Not to mention his skill with a riding crop. He can’t imagine this mysterious criminal mastermind doing _that_. This is a match of wits between equals, anything sexual about it is merely inconsequential.

It seems Sherlock has built himself something of a reputation amongst the criminal underbelly of the city. It _is_ somewhat gratifying, he has to admit. It is clear Moriarty heard about him a long time ago. Long enough to have watched and waited and planned. But so far there is little to be divined in the opposite direction. There simply is insufficient data, and he hasn’t the time to get any. When they meet – and it is _when_ , this is inevitable – he will be going in mostly blind. Still, they have many similarities. It ought not be too much of a setback.

Seven minutes past four. Lestrade comes to him with a stack of paper; all known associates of the original nicotine victim. It doesn’t take long to isolate the most probable individual. Mary Heath, grandmother, 87, inexplicably missing from her care home. Woman, man, child, geriatric. Moriarty likes patterns. And as to location, it just so happens there is a Taller & Sons building site nearby.

Four down, one more to go. And then they will meet. Sherlock still isn’t sure whether he wants to kill him, or if they should play some more. He knows what John would say. But it’s so much _fun_! He suspects he won’t be able to make a decision until he sees him, face to face. He is so looking forward to it.

\-----

“We’re out of milk,” John calls from the kitchen. Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise in reply. The hostage has been saved, and there should have been another call by now, _something_ , but there has been silence. Five pips. There _has_ to be one more left, otherwise it doesn’t make sense.

“I’ll just pop to the store and get some then. Tescos down the road is open ‘til eleven.” Sherlock tracks John’s progress by the noise he makes, putting his coat on, checking his keys and wallet, setting off down the stairs, and finally the muted sound of their front door closing.

As soon as John has left, Sherlock reaches for his laptop. Yes, Mycroft will get his plans back, but it was easy enough to make a copy, and now he has something to bargain with. Now he can meet Moriarty.

 _I have the plans. Meet me at the building where your man tried to play a poisoned game with me._

He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer. _Sorry Sherlock, but I’m not dumb. I get to set up the meet. How about... right where you first taught little John Watson how to be a monster. I think that will do nicely. See you at midnight. Don’t bring any friends. xxxx M._

The warehouse. It will do as well as the college would have. No one around, and plenty of open space. He’s not afraid of a set up. Moriarty has no reason to kill him, not like this. No, that would be no fun at all. The game isn’t over yet. There’s still one more thing to come, something he can’t deduce yet. It’s hard to surprise him; it hasn’t happened in years, but it seems Moriarty may have managed it.

He has three hours. This is time he should take to prepare, but he already has everything he needs. There is no research that will tell him anything new, no need for plotting convoluted plans, and to look the place over before his enemy arrives would only be likely to scare him off. There are rules to this game, of a sort, and going in blind like this is one of them.

Three hours. Sherlock leans back in his chair, his mind ticking over. He can’t ever _stop_ thinking, he isn’t capable of it, but it is galling to have to wait. Moriarty set it for midnight, so he needs the time for something. Hopefully something _fun_. He can’t even distract _himself_ until their meeting, he is too focussed on it, it would be impossible to concentrate on anything else.

He will have to find something to get John out of the way when the time comes. Too dangerous to bring him, and after all, he isn’t necessary. It’s not about him. It won’t take John very long to get milk. Perhaps he can be persuaded into an early night. The past few days have not been very easy on him, and he must be tired. Yes. Let him sleep. This is between Sherlock and Moriarty.

\----

Nothing has changed in the warehouse since he was last here. The same boxes and packaging stacked up in tall towers and covered with plastic wrap, the lights turned down low, cold, deserted. Perfect for a little murder, or in this case, a meeting of minds.

“Moriarty!” he calls out, “I’m here!” There is no reply but the silence. It would be eerie, if Sherlock was affected by such petty human fears. He slips the memory stick with the copied plans from the pocket of his suit and holds it up in the air, confident the security cameras will pick it up. The last time he was here he had disabled them himself, but Moriarty strikes him as the type to prefer to keep them active, to keep watch.

Moriarty, wherever he is, still does not speak, but Sherlock becomes aware of muffled noises coming from further in, deep within the passageways between the blocks of building materials and boxes. Well. Number five, perhaps? He follows the sounds, wending through the baffling maze until he turns a corner and...

John. His heart stops. Terror and anger pierce his bowels like cold knives. John’s eyes, frightened and angry but trying not to show it – for his sake, he knows – stare at him pleadingly from above a gag, his hands secured behind his back, sitting in a perfect mirror of the man he killed in this very spot. Sherlock feels like being sick.

“John,” he says, brokenly, taking a step towards him, but John shakes his head, gesturing with a flick of his eyes upwards. They are being watched. And, as if to prove it, the tiny red dot of a sniper’s laser sight settles itself over John’s heart.

“What do you want?” Sherlock shouts to their unseen watcher. “If it’s the plans you’re after, you can have them!”

“Oh, no.” The voice seems to come from all sides, echoing off the walls of merchandise, playful, and with no clearly discernable accent. “I can get _those_ anywhere.” Sherlock glares around, not daring to move, searching the shadows.

“What is it Sherlock?” Moriarty taunts. “Afraid for your little pet? Your attack dog? You’ve been training him up to do your dirty work, haven’t you.” He tuts, mock disappointed.

“What. Do. You. Want?” Sherlock spits out each word as though they are burning his tongue.

Someone steps slowly out of the shadows. Height somewhere between Sherlock and John, expensive suit, face half hidden behind the digital camcorder he is holding up to his eyes. “Smile!” he says, showing white teeth in anything but. Predator, Sherlock’s mind throws up. Killer without remorse. Kin in spirit, if not by blood.

“Let him go,” Sherlock says. “This is between you and me.”

“Well, it should have been,” Moriarty replies. “I had everything worked out, and then you had to go and spoil it by finding some runt to adopt. Still, I can see he’s had his uses. Vicious little mongrel.”

Sherlock says nothing. He still doesn’t know what Moriarty wants, what his angle is here, and it is all right in front of him, he ought to be able to deduce it, but nothing. He can’t think straight, not with John right there, only the finger twitch of a stranger between him and death.

“Don’t you want to know what this is for?” Moriarty asks teasingly, tapping the side of the camera slowly. His accent slides all over, chaotic. Appropriate. Sherlock ignores the question.

“I should congratulate you on your attention to detail,” he says instead, locking his emotions away. He can’t afford them right now. “It must have taken some time to put everything together.”

“You want to know how I did it.” He is pacing up and down, moving like a panther, as though he simply can’t bear to be still. The camera is still recording, little red light blinking. “The famous Sherlock Holmes can’t figure something out!”

“It seems you have known about me a lot longer than I have known about you.”

“You’ve made quite a name for yourself! At first I admit I thought you were just a dull do-gooder, but dig a little deeper and _oh!_ The things I found! Such a prolific serial killer Sherlock! I am _impressed_ , and I don’t say that often.” The mercurial grin is back, mocking. “I’ve been watching you Sherlock, very closely, for a very long time.”

Something in the way he says it makes Sherlock narrow his eyes in suspicion. “And how long is that?”

“Remember a boy named Carl Powers?” His voice is softer now, reminiscing, perhaps. “My first kill. And you were there, asking questions. And then you pop up again in London, just as I start to gain some ground in my own work. Fate! There’s nothing like it!”

Oh, Sherlock remembers. He remembers very well. It is nice, to be vindicated after all these years, even if it is his nemesis giving him that gift. “Why now?” he says.

Moriarty’s free hand inscribes circles in the air. “Our worlds, coming together again. The cabbie, the Tong, it was only a matter of time. We’re coming into competition. And everyone knows what to do to competition.” _You eliminate it_ , Sherlock fills in.

Sherlock chances a glance over at John, who is bearing up extraordinarily well. Most of the fear has been replaced by cold fury, and his arms still twist behind his back, trying to get free. The skin of his wrists must be rubber raw, but still he keeps at it. Sherlock honestly... he doesn’t know what he’ll do if something happens to him. He’s gotten used to their life together, to the new and alien feelings John has brought out in him and which he simply can’t face loosing. He is going to save him, whatever it takes.

“It all comes down to this,” Moriarty says quietly. “You and me and John Watson getting in the way. So here it is. Get rid of him, and we can work together, kill people together, even go back to playing games with one another, whatever you want. Don’t his little spasms of pretend morality irritate you? Doesn’t his dull little brain annoy you? You’ve enjoyed these few days, haven’t you, you can’t deny _that_. Think of how much better it could be! You would never have to be bored again.”

Before John, it would have been easy. He would have leapt at the chance. But now... now there is no choice at all.

“No.”

“Oh well!” Moriarty says, sighing in a very fake way. “Didn’t really think you’d go for it. So here’s choice number two. John, or your freedom. Talk into my little camera here, a nice full confession of all your crimes for your little police friend, and John goes free. You don’t even have to mention his part in it. Or, and I don’t think I have to spell this out for you...” He mimics a gun shape with his hand, still smiling the same psychopath smile. “Bang!”

Oh yes. He sees it all now. It won’t even be such a big stretch for Lestrade to believe it; he has had all the evidence he needs handed to him on a plate. All it would take is for someone to show him how the jigsaw pieces fit together. But... for John...

Moriarty must see the defeat in his eyes, because he lets out a little laugh and dances closer, thrusting the camera into Sherlock’s face. For the first time, he gets a good look at the man. There is something... oddly familiar about him. But he can’t place it, and he won’t have the chance to investigate after this.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

\-----

John watches with mounting horror as Sherlock begins to recite into the camera. If it weren’t for the gag he would be shouting at him, telling him not to do this, not to give up his freedom like this. John’s life isn’t worth it. It _isn’t_. What is his life anyway since the war? His only real connection to another human being is to Sherlock, the only person who would be really, truly affected if he died, and as for himself, well, maybe London would be better off without him. The murder rate would certainly go down. And he just can’t bear to see the pained, defeated look on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is a genius, he should be free, and happy, and not bored...

The blood is running without restraint from the rubbed-raw skin around his wrists now, offering some small lubrication to the cable ties binding him, but he already knows they are on too tight. It would take a knife to get them off, or for him to break most of the bones in his hands... there’s nothing he can do. He’s helpless to stop this.

“... 13th November, Miranda Jones, East End...” Sherlock is saying, cold and sharp against the power of Moriarty’s grin when all of a sudden that grin drops and he raises a hand to his ear where John can just see the plastic of a communications ear-bud, a hint of a frown forming.

“Moran,” he says quietly, “Moran, is there a problem?” John stops his struggles and pulls himself up, alert. Has something gone wrong for the little psychopath? God, let it have. Evidently so, for Moriarty shuts the camera off, flipping the screen away and holding up one finger in what John thinks looks a rather strained gesture. “We appear to be having some technical difficulties at this time, your program will resume shortly...”

Sherlock look as confused as John feels. Moriarty turns away as if to disappear down one of the passages between the crates, and then there is the unusually soft bark of a rifle, and a tufted tranquiliser dart appears in his neck. He stops, reaches up with one hand to tug it out, fumbling at it a bit, looks at it disbelievingly, sways, and goes out like a light. The digital camcorder slides away along the concrete with a clatter.

For a moment Sherlock doesn’t move, staring wide eyed at Moriarty’s unconscious body, but then he’s running over to John, crouching and pulling the gag out of his mouth, holding his face in his hands and looking into his eyes with a burning intensity.

“God John, please tell me you’re alright. I couldn’t bear it otherwise, please.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” John says, forcing it out through a throat dry with trying to shout. “He had someone break in to Baker Street, came down from the roof I think, got me as I was about to get into bed. Knocked me out, but they only tied me up like this, that’s all, I promise. I’m okay.”

Sherlock leans forwards to rest their foreheads together, his eyes fluttering closed. It hits John then, how deeply Sherlock feels for him, and if he had ever had any doubts he could lay them to rest; Sherlock is in love with him, as deeply as John loves him in return.

“My, this is all very touching,” someone says.

Sherlock’s reaction is immediate, jumping to his feet and whirling to face the newcomer, expression and posture fierce despite his lack of a weapon. Then... “Mycroft.”

John tries to twist himself to see past Sherlock. And... yes, there he is. John has never been so glad to see the man in his life. “I suppose we have you to thank for that,” he croaks, nodding his head in Moriarty’s direction.

Mycroft gives them a small smile in reply, very causal and unruffled as always. Sherlock glares at him but doesn’t say anything, presumably caught between natural distaste and unavoidable gratitude.

“How long have you known about this?” Sherlock asks.

“Long enough,” Mycroft says. “Moriarty has been on our radar for a while, but I confess, I didn’t take much notice until _my_ surveillance teams saw _his_.”

“You could have stepped in before, why now?”

Mycroft looks down at his umbrella, twirling it idly. “I confess my motives were not all out of brotherly concern.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“What do you want?”

John looks back and forth between them, unsure if he ought to butt in. Still, he has a bit of a sinking feeling about this. After all, Mycroft is for all intents and purposes the government, and governments don’t usually take too well to prolific serial killers roaming around their capital city.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh god, not you too,” Sherlock says dismissively, but John knows better. He is worried, he can tell.

“Oh, I think you’ll find mine rather more to your liking. Haven’t I always said you should be utilising your talents in some more productive capacity? You’re wasting your life Sherlock, I mean, _really_.”

“I refuse to become some bureaucratic pen pusher stuck behind a desk for the rest of my life,” Sherlock says acidly, “so you may take your offer and insert it...”

“No Sherlock, you misunderstand me,” Mycroft says before he can finish the sentence. “I am very clear on your distaste for my kind of work, believe me. No, this is an offer to you _and_ John. People with your... _specialised_ talents can be very useful.”

John has to admit he’s lost. He has no idea what Mycroft is trying to hint at, but clearly Sherlock does, because he goes very stiff. “You want us to be your own private little assassins.”

“There are some unfortunate individuals in the world who would benefit from, shall we say, untraceable liquidation.” John would have been appalled, a very long time ago, but he’s learned to expect nothing different from Holmes stock. He looks over at Sherlock, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“And if we say no?” Sherlock asks.

“Then DI Lestrade will get all the information he requires.”

“You’re really going to blackmail your own brother?” John says, the words surprised out of him.

“Dr Watson, I think you forget, it is my civic _duty_ to prevent two dangerous murderers from escaping,” Mycroft replies, tutting. “However, two employees of the Crown may be given significantly more leeway. And I can promise you Sherlock, you will never get bored.”

There isn’t really a choice, and everyone here knows it. Finally, Sherlock nods slowly. Mycroft beams at them, all smiles. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it,” he says. “Since that has been taken care of, I’m sure Dr Watson would appreciate being let out of those ties.” He produces a penknife from the pocket of his three piece suit and tosses it to Sherlock, who catches it easily, setting to work immediately. It is bloody heaven to be out of the cable ties, John thinks, standing up and rubbing the flaking, drying blood from his wrists.

“And now there is just one thing to clear up, your friend Mori...” Mycroft stops, staring at the place, now conspicuously vacant, where Moriarty had been. He frowns. “Number One, are you sure you took out the sniper?” A pause. “Well check, if you would be so good.”

“Are all your people this incompetent?” Sherlock says snappishly, wrapping his arm tighter round John. “No wonder you’re so eager to get us on your payroll.” John knows he ought to be more concerned about this disappearing act, but the night must be catching up on him, because his head is fuzzy, and he feels almost dead on his feet.

Mycroft sighs. “Well, think of it as your first assignment then.”

“Oh, we will,” John says earnestly. He can’t wait to get his hands on the bastard that hurt Sherlock. This is going to be _very_ enjoyable.

\------

Jim opens his eyes and blinks as the world swims back into focus. Cold... he’s cold. And his head is just _killing_ him. It takes some effort to drag himself up off the floor onto hands and knees, his skull pounding like someone has taken a hammer to the back of it. What was the last thing he was doing... he can barely remember it... oh, yes, Molly. _Molly_. Stupid bitch had _drugged_ his _tea_. How _dare_ she! And Sherlock must have put her up to it. Well, it had been a risk going back, he would have figured it out eventually, even if they never formally met... He raises his head, trying to get a better look at wherever they have put him. Sebastian, he’ll get him out. Where is he?

Oh. Damn. There is a body hanging by its heels from the ceiling, throat cut like a pig, fingertips just brushing the ground. It’s a bit difficult to tell with all the skin missing, but he’d stake his favourite Westwood suit that it’s Seb. Fuck. _Fuck_. He’s not going to feel bad about it, he’s _not_. He is Jim Moriarty and he doesn’t get attached! That is for lesser men like Sherlock Holmes. But still... Sebastian was _useful_. And deadly, and attractive, and good in bed, and...

No, he can’t think about that now. Sherlock and his little attack dog could be back any minute, and while a little pain can be a lot of fun, that’s not going to be the kind of game the pair of them have in mind. Fuck Mycroft, that lazy bastard, they had had an _understanding_. So much for the honour of the English gentleman! Well, perhaps going after his brother had been a bit much, but they hadn’t even _liked_ each other for God’s sake.

Jim pushes himself to his feet and tries to take a step forward, but he is immediately brought up short by the unexpected tug of a manacle around his ankle. He looks down to see the chain leading back to a massive metal ring set into the floor, and right beside it, a rusty hacksaw.

“Oh _very_ original!” he snarls. “I’ve seen this movie too you know!” No answer. Well. Looks like the newest game has begun.


End file.
